Chapter 2
1597 Words
Chapter Two
Valentina
I pull back the sheet once the door shuts with Dom’s departure. The ass didn’t even let me get a word out before he assumed he knew what I was going to say.
He always assumes.
I pick up the paperwork he tossed beside me. How the heck did we end up married? When his text came through last night, I was still on a high from the kids at my studio winning the competition and figured one drink couldn’t hurt. We drank, we danced, we gambled… and from there, everything goes fuzzy.
When I attempt to get out of bed, my head spins and I have to sit back down. After a few deep breaths, I push my hair out of my face and notice how silky it is. That means I must’ve showered when we got back here last night.
A hazy memory surfaces. I touch my lips and sure enough, they’re tender—Dom is a biter. I stand again, and this time my brain doesn’t swim in my skull, so I head to the bathroom. I don’t have to remember every detail of our night to see how much we enjoyed one another. Small nibbles mark the tops of my breasts and down my torso, evidence of Dom’s attentions.
No man has ever enjoyed mapping out my body like him. And that’s probably why I answered that text. Dom and I might not be a good fit long term, but in the bedroom? That’s where we’re a perfect fit.
Somehow, even with his easy dismissal of me and pissed off attitude, I crave him again. To have those big hands unlatch my bra only to hear the groan that escapes him as though it’s the first time he’s seen me nude.
I shake my head. My demented head, which refuses to accept that Dominic Mancini does not care about me. The only person in this world he cares about more than himself is his mama, just like any good Italian boy. And after that comes money.
Moving around the room, I pluck up my garments one by one. The small skirt I changed into when he said he’d meet me at the hotel. The skimpy panties I hoped he’d strip me out of. The push-up bra and tight shirt I wanted to entice him with.
Lastly, I snag the marriage license off the bed because I won’t allow him to go all caveman and take charge of the divorce. When I stuff it in my clutch, a picture falls out and flutters to the floor.
I pick it up, all my energy depleting when I stare at the photograph. I fall back on the bed. We’re both clearly glossy-eyed and sloppy. I can’t believe they let us get married. Isn’t there some sort of law against that? The wad of cash the officiant holds makes me think Dom paid him off, but who knows?
It’s the two of us and I’m leaning against him with my arm around his middle smiling at the camera. Instead of his eyes being on the camera, he’s looking down at me with an uncharacteristic warm smile on his face.
How come getting that man to smile makes me feel like Wonder Woman?
Later that evening, I’m walking through the lobby of my hotel—which is two down the Strip from Dom’s—thankful there’s no way I’ll bump into him again. Maybe we can get a divorce without having to interact.
Since the dance competition is over, most of the parents and kids from my studio have headed back to New York. I opted to stay an extra night, knowing how drained I am after nationals. I figured I’d have a spa day and spend the day relaxing. And thank God I thought ahead, because if there was ever a day I needed to relieve some tension, it’s today.
After a day at the spa, the dull ache of my hangover is almost a distant memory. Nothing a shot of caffeine won’t fix at this point. I debated not keeping my appointment but freaking out by myself in my hotel room did seem like a good idea. At least at the spa I stood a chance of finding some peace.
With a fresh glow to every inch of my skin, I feel confident that I’ve scrubbed Dom from my consciousness. Okay, that’s a lie. But like I always tell Ryder, success and effort go hand-in-hand.
I smile politely at the gentleman serving customers at the Starbucks. My plan is to kick this hangover then veg out in my hotel room until my flight tomorrow.
“Valentina Daniella Cavallo?”
Hearing that name raises the hairs on my neck. It means they’re from my old neighborhood back in Brooklyn. The fact that the voice sounds eerily similar to my new husband’s has dread forming in the pit of my stomach.
I glance over my shoulder and the dots connect. “Enzo Mancini?”
I really hope I feigned surprise well and he believes that I don’t already know he’s here for his cousin’s bachelor party. Or that as of last night, I’m his new sister-in-law.
“I thought that was you, but then wondered what the chances were that both of us are in Vegas?” He hugs me briefly and kisses my cheeks. “Sorry, just got back from bungee jumping with the guys.” He glances down at his roughed up athletic gear. “Our cousin, Luca—you remember the Biancos from Chicago?”
I nod.
“He’s getting married, and they’re having their bachelor and bachelorette parties here.”
He’s speaking, but all I can concentrate on are his similarities to Dom. Enzo goes on and on about how one of the guys with them today threw up as he was free-falling because they got a little crazy last night. He and his brother share the same nose and smile. Then again, Dom doesn’t smile very often, so maybe I’m imagining it. Enzo was pretty serious back in the day too, whereas Carm was always the live wire.
“So you’ll come then? Dom and Carm will both be there, and it’s totally casual.”
I’m flustered, so I step up in line. “I’m sorry, I must have zoned out. I’m just coming from a day at the spa. What were you saying?”
What I really want to ask is what Enzo’s doing here at my hotel, rather than the one they’re staying at.
“Dinner. Tonight. It’s just a small group of us. It’s our last night before we head home tomorrow. Join us.”
I’m able to delay answering by ordering my coffee. If I join them, it’ll ruin Dom’s mood.
Before I can pay, a twenty slides across the counter to the cashier. “No, Enzo, I have it.”
“My treat. It’s been so long since we’ve seen each other. What have you been up to?”
The cashier takes his order—a caramel latte with skim milk. That doesn’t really sound like Enzo, but who am I to judge?
“Not much. I was here for a dance competition.”
“Oh, you’re still dancing?”
He’s polite enough to act as though he hasn’t heard the rumors over the years when we both know that our predominantly Italian neighborhood in Brooklyn gossips enough to put Page Six in the New York Times to shame.
“No. I own a few dance studios in the city. My kids were performing,” I say.
“Oh, that’s awesome.”
We stand by a pillar, and though I don’t have to pry—since I know all about his life over the past two years—I ask because he doesn’t know that. “And you? Keeping out of trouble?”
A grin with wattage that would match the Strip’s electricity bill lights up his face. “I met someone.” He nods toward the coffee place. “Hence, the caramel latte. I’m not even staying at this hotel.”
He laughs, and I can’t help but smile. Back in the day, the Mancini boys were all so driven to succeed that I never thought I’d see the day when a woman nailed them down. They broke a lot of hearts without even knowing it. The fact that a woman scored Enzo says she’s probably amazing.
“I’d love to meet her.”
His hand touches my arm. “Tonight.”
The barista calls out our drink orders. Being the gentleman his mother raised him to be, Enzo picks up both cups and hands me mine.
“It’ll be fun,” he says. “Are you here with someone?” I have no chance to answer. “Bring him along.”
Don’t worry, he’ll be there.
“Nah, I’m by myself, but it’s a family thing.”
He tilts his head. “No such thing. You know that. Come on.” He pulls out the one thing I’ve feared this entire time—his phone. “Let me grab your number and I’ll text you the details.”
“Um… well…”
“Come on. Did you hear about Carm? He’s practically got the ball and chain around his ankle now too. You can’t tell me you don’t want to meet the woman who wants to spend all her time with Carm?” He laughs.
Carm… the one Mancini who always smiles.
“Okay, maybe just a quick dinner.”
I don’t know why I’m agreeing. Unfortunately, it’s hard to fool yourself and I know exactly why I said yes. It’s as simple as the fact that my relationship with Dominic Mancini has always been complicated and after a drought of almost nine months, I’m not ready to say goodbye just yet.
“Great. Give me your phone number.”
I rattle off mine, then my phone dings in my bag.
He says, “That’s mine. It’s around seven tonight. Nothing dressy. I’ll text you the details.”
“Sounds good. Thanks for the invite.”
As Enzo leans in to hug me goodbye, I wonder if I should give Dom a heads-up or not. Would he give me one? Probably not. Might as well play a little game of my own this time around.
- Writer
