Italian’s Christmas Acquisition

Chapter Fourteen

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

S LOWLY , SIGNS THAT another person lived in his home began to creep in. It wasn’t only the Christmas tree. That was gone by the day after Christmas. He had to have some respects for his own rules. But she began to cook for him, which meant keeping food in the house, rather than simply ordering up every time he wanted something.

She collected pots and pans and other gadgets.

There were places for everything. It was clean.

And yet, sometimes something would be left in a place that he didn’t leave it, and it was a bit jarring.

He wasn’t accustomed to it.

He didn’t hate it.

She was... Changing things inside of him fundamentally. Making him want to change, to compromise, even. To find a way to be close to her, and not simply shut away in a fortress.

And he didn’t know what to do with that.

She had a binder with all of her wedding plans in it, and he came home one day to find it all spread out on a new coffee table in the living room.

She was sitting there, chewing on a pen and looking at things. “I don’t think there are enough flowers.”

He lifted his brow. “Have you met me?”

“My wedding isn’t going to be minimalist.” She sighed. “I do wish we could have it at the Christmas tree farm.”

She sounded wistful. And the truth was, he was in this moment the same man who had demanded that a Christmas tree be delivered at eleven thirty at night on Christmas Eve, and they could easily have their wedding at the Christmas tree farm. But for some reason, he didn’t want to allow it. For some reason, it felt like too much of a shift. Too much of a compromise.

“If only,” he said. “But the venue is booked.”

She looked up at him and squinted. “Of course. I mean, I would think that with money like yours the real barrier is that you want to impress the people who are coming with a city venue?”

“You are quite comfortable spending my money,” he said.

She drew back as if wounded. He hadn’t meant to hurt her. He did that sometimes.

He was... He only knew how to be alone, he supposed. But she was here now, and he had to learn to be with her. He wanted to learn.

“Sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to imply that the cost didn’t matter.”

“No,” he said. “I’m the one who was mistaken. I shouldn’t have said it like that. I did not mean it.”

“Oh.”

She looked around. “I made a little bit of a mess.”

“You live here,” he said, though he said the words with some difficulty.

“You almost mean that!” she said, laughing just slightly and he felt some of the tension in him ease.

The problem was, he often felt caught between his desire to maintain his boundaries, and his desire to give her whatever she wanted. Whatever would keep her with him.

He suddenly felt an overwhelming sense of urgency. To keep her with him. To do the right thing. If he didn’t, he would be left alone again, and now he had changed so much he did not think he could face it.

What an uncomfortable thing.

To have changed so much he could no longer find solace in solitude.

To not have yet changed enough to be all that she needed.

He felt very resentful, then, of the childhood he had spent in isolation. Because he blamed that, more than anything, for his inability to figure out what to do with her now.

And it hadn’t mattered. Until he had wanted to keep somebody with him, it hadn’t mattered. She was right, he had gone around wielding power, money and influence, and that had compensated for his lack of people skills. For his inability to compromise. For the mountain of trauma that existed inside of him that he had to scale every single day.

He didn’t know how to cross that threshold with her. He didn’t know how to fix it.

There were moments when everything was perfect. Then there were moments like this, where it felt like there was something missing between them. Where it felt like there was a gap that he could not close.

“It is not a money issue,” he said. “But I wish to be married in the city. However, everything else regarding the wedding planning is up to you. If you wish to go maximalist, then I will give you my blessing.”

She looked up at him, her eyes glittering with a kind of joy that he wasn’t certain he had ever seen on another person’s face. There was something so genuine about her. She seemed to feel everything. It was intoxicating. Astonishing.

He wanted to capture that. Keep it with him always. Because sometimes he disappointed her, and he was so keenly aware of that. And then moments later, this.

“We should go away,” he said.

“Where?”

“Italy,” he said. “I have seen where you grew up.”

“You really want to go back...”

He lifted a shoulder. “I love Italy.” Though the truth was a little bit more complicated. He tried to find a way to untangle it inside of him, to untangle it in his mouth so that he could explain it. “Parts of it are entirely divorced from the harder parts of my childhood. I would not go back to that house. But... Lake Como is beautiful. Milan.”

“I don’t have a passport,” she said.

“You don’t need one. Or rather, I will arrange everything. And you needn’t concern yourself. You are traveling with me, and you will be taken care of.”

That was a promise. One that extended well beyond just this trip. He would take care of her. She had entered into this agreement without full understanding of who he was or what it could cost to be with him. He owed her that much. She was going to be the mother of his child, after all. And more than that... There was something indescribably pure about her. Something that he had never experienced growing up. An optimism, a capacity for hope, that he simply did not possess.

He did not want to be the reason the light left her eyes. He did not want to be the thing that extinguished her hope.

He wanted to protect her. He could imagine himself easily as a knight in shining armor, wielding a sword and stepping between her and any imagined enemies.

Though the odd and instant picture that came to mind was himself, pressing the tip of the sword against his own throat. As if he was potentially the biggest threat.

She was everything he was not, and he had identified that from the first moment of illicit attraction.

Did that mean he would be the one to crush her?

No. Not if he decided he would not.

“When?”

“Now,” he said.

“I have... Some appointments with Daniela.”

“They can be rearranged. If you don’t mind, of course.” Compromise. He had done it. He was quite proud of himself.

“All right. If you’re sure it’s okay.”

“It’s more than okay. It is good. You deserve...” Everything. She deserved everything.

“What?” she asked, her eyes filled with humor.

“You deserve a break,” he said. “Because being here, being in the media, I know it has been difficult for you.” He hesitated. “You didn’t know that your mother had an affair, did you?”

She shook her head. “No. I was convinced that she loved my father. I thought he was the one keeping her at home, and that I was the reason she left. But more and more, I realize that everything around me just wasn’t true.”

“I am sorry that I said what you went through wasn’t difficult. I know that it was. I know that it is. I cannot imagine what it’s like to have a happy childhood. But to have a happy childhood and have it proved to be an allusion...”

“It wasn’t,” she said softly. “In some ways. The truth is, they worked to make it a happy childhood for me. It’s just that they weren’t happy, I don’t think. I’ll never know my dad’s side of things. That makes me sad. The realization that I will never really know him. My mother claimed that he knew about the affair. But how? How could he let that go? And why? Was it only for me? Did he love her that much. Did he love the facade of our family that much? I can never ask him. I feel like I’m just now realizing my parents were whole people, and it is too late for me to treat my dad like that. It is too late for me to really understand. It’s a terrible thing to regret.”

He felt that lodge somewhere at the center of his chest. The concept that his mother had been a whole person. Tormented, obviously, by tricks in her mind. By mental illness that had held her in such a tight grip that she had not been able to live better, not for herself or for him.

He cleared his throat. “I can imagine.”

“But yes, I would like a break. This has been the most eventful couple months of my life. And I run a Christmas tree farm. So when I tell you that December can be pretty eventful...”

“I am quite certain,” he said.

“You don’t esteem my Wyoming wisdom.”

He shook his head. “On the contrary. I do very much. Your perspective is so different than mine, and yet somehow, it brings me back around to interesting conclusions.”

“Well. I’m glad to be interesting.”

“Always.”

He had a home in the mountains outside of Milan, and they flew there directly, with Noelle exclaiming about the private jet the whole time. And he wanted to hang on to that infectious excitement.

He wanted to hang on to her.

To give her whatever was required. He watched her face avidly when they landed and drove through the city. As she looked at all the sites. He wanted her to be pleased. To be invested in this place that he had come from.

And even more so, he wanted her to find his house beautiful. Because it was hers now too.

He reminded her of that when they went through the wrought iron gates and up to the elaborate stone facade. He never went here.

He had bought it as part of his expansion efforts. A property to add to his portfolio, and nothing more.

It was furnished in far too classical a fashion for his tastes. It bordered on cluttered, in his opinion. But because of the nature of the historic origins of the home, he had not changed anything in it. The designer of the place would have keeled over in horror had he done so. And it was more an investment, than a place for him to actually visit. An effort at keeping a hand in his homeland, rather than something that existed for him. But she would like it. It was the closest thing to Holiday House that he possessed. Because it was a time capsule of his family. Of their legacy.

A replica of what the house he grew up in could have been had his mother not let it decay under the weight of her illness.

He knew another nudge of discomfort.

Like he was on the verge of truths clicking into place, but he didn’t quite want them to.

He ground his teeth together.

And then he turned his focus to Noelle.

“This is extraordinary,” she breathed.

“I hear they decorated quite magnificently at Christmas.”

“You haven’t seen it decorated?”

He shook his head. “No. I don’t often come here.”

“I would love to see it at Christmas. But why decorate it if you’re not even here?”

“There is a full staff. And I believe people rent it out for parties and the like.”

“Oh,” she said. “I suppose as a property developer you own all kinds of places that you never really go to.”

“Yes. Though... Come inside.”

They approached the ornate double doors, a dark walnut with brass handles, and they opened for them. Two staff members one on either side, holding them in place. “This is meant to replicate my family home.”

A glint of pleasure lit her eyes. “Oh. Thank you for showing me this.”

He looked at it through her eyes. He did not see dust and clutter. Rather the velvet furniture with its ornate wooden scrollwork suddenly became beautiful to him. The large, heavily framed paintings on the wall took on new life. Became a window into another time. Into the vision of the artist. Not simply a relic that would be better off in a bin than taking up space.

What was it that she did to him? It was untold.

It was completely unfathomable.

“It’s incredible,” she said. “I love it.”

“I’m glad that you do. We will stay here for a time. There is... A beautiful train ride through the Alps, I can take you there.”

He hadn’t realized until this moment that his desire to keep his life so spare, so filled with space, kept him isolated. Had kept him closed off from beauty, from joy. Being with her...he felt so close to something new that he could just about feel it. Not quite.

He wanted to feel it.

He wanted to have something now, so that he could give it to her. It suddenly felt essential.

That if perhaps he could find a way to make her happy enough, it might spill over into himself.

They rested well that night in a bed he would’ve normally been scathing of. For all its extra pillows, and drapery around it. He had nothing scathing to say about it, especially not given what had happened between the two of them in that bed.

She was a vixen and a sex goddess, and at the same time, irrevocably his. It filled him with wonder.

He had arranged for them to have their own glass railcar attached to one of the luxury liners that traveled between Italy and Switzerland through the mountains. It also had their own luxury sleeping accommodation. The train was not a high-speed train, rather it was designed to move slowly and allow the rider to take in the majestic view of the Alps all around them.

Their car had glass walls and a glass ceiling, and was outfitted with blankets, a table, and several places for them to sit and enjoy the view.

When they boarded, they were served hot chocolate with marshmallows, and Noelle immediately curled up in a large reclining seat, a blanket over her knees. She clutched the hot chocolate mug and looked up at him. And he felt not alone in a way that was profound.

He sat beside her. He had no interest in hot chocolate or blankets. Both were sweet and soft in ways that he could never be. But she wanted them. So he embraced them.

She looked at the mountains as they crept slowly down the track, and he looked at her. At the way the sun shone on her hair. The way her skin was illuminated by the fresh white snow.

“This is incredible,” she said, snuggling against him.

“Yes,” he agreed. “It is.”

“I love mountains,” she said. “This reminds me of Wyoming. Of the Grand Tetons. And yet I don’t and I can never tire of mountains. It doesn’t make them commonplace. It’s stunning.”

“I cannot remember what it feels like to love things. I... Have never been fascinated by nature because I cannot control it. And as far as what I bring into my home...”

“I know.”

“You make me wish that I did,” he said, an ache suddenly expanding in his chest. “You make me wish... I wish I could feel the things that you do. But I can watch you feel them, and that is nearly as good.”

She looked at him, a smile curving her lips. “Why don’t you feel them?”

“It’s not that simple. It’s not I...” He had the realization that in order to fix some of the issues with where he was now he would probably have to go back to when they started. And the idea of that was... Unbearable.

So he would watch her. He would feel it through her. Because that felt manageable, at least. Because it felt good.

They took their luxury dinner in the car with the lights dimmed, so that they could see the stars up above them.

And when they retired to bed, they found it plush and lovely, walls closed in to offer privacy, but the ceiling glass so that they had the view.

He stripped her slowly, kissing her neck, the lovely curve of her shoulder, her breast.

If he was to have one possession in all of his life, he decided it needed to be her.

He could say whatever he needed to to keep her with him. He could give her pleasure in all the ways he desired most.

She would not live in her little town for half the year, though. That would not work. Not before they had a child, and not after.

She had to stay with him.

But he would make her happy. He could show her all these things. He could spend a lifetime capturing her wonder like fireflies in a jar, enough for her, and enough for him.

He could.

He kissed his way down her body, down to her hip bone. To that glorious tangle of curls between her legs. He loved the taste of her.

He loved the way she cried out when he licked her. It was carnal, and yet it felt holy in a way that he would never be able to explain. He didn’t have to. Because he was Rocco Moretti, above all else. And she might have bewitched him in more ways than one, but it didn’t change the foundation.

He could have it all ways.

He could be this with her, and the ruthless businessman he had become.

The one that kept that lonely little boy locked in a bedroom light-years behind him.

And he would think of none of it now, because her sighs filled the room, and her flavor coated his tongue. And that was enough.

More than enough. Any more would simply be hoarding.

One did not need everything. That, he supposed, was the root of that illness. The need to have it all.

He would have bits and pieces. Here and there. It would be enough.

He laid her down on the bed, and thrust inside of her, watched as her expression contorted to one of wonder. Felt it echo inside of him.

With nothing but moonlight pouring down over them, he claimed her. Over and over again. He made a promise. To make her happy.

He kissed her, with everything inside of him, and he thought that maybe it would do something to ease the ache in his chest. It didn’t. It only got worse. But she was with him. She was with him still.

He thrust hard, fast, taking them both to the peak. And he swallowed her cry of need, so that it met his growl of completion.

He gathered her against his body, after they had found their release, and held her there. Their hearts beat in tandem, and he closed his eyes.

He was on the edge of something.

Something.

As he drifted off to sleep, the last image that filtered through his mind was of him, locking her in a room with him. So that she could never leave.

So that he would always have her.

Always.