Marissa
I blink up at Gio, a riot of emotions filling my chest beyond capacity. It seems too unreal to believe this powerful, wealthy, dangerous man is making pledges to a twenty-five-year-old line cook from Cicero.
But if it all goes back to me being in his nightmares, I guess it makes sense. I represent something to him. Something about why he survived or what he should change in his second chance at life.
Because the moment is too big, too vulnerable, too scary, I blurt, “I made dessert.”
A giant grin stretches across Gio’s beautiful face. “She made me dessert,” he narrates. “This girl is perfect.” He arches one brow, movie-star style. “Only I thought you were the dessert, angel.” He climbs off me and helps me to my feet.
“Another dessert, then,” I tell him. I’m excited to give it
