Too Close To Home (A Stepfather Romance)

POV: HALLIE

By the time I called my estranged mother and asked if I could move home, my dignity was buried six feet under.

The month started with losing the receptionist job I’d had for three years after new management came in and decided to “restructure,” which meant restructuring me straight out of a paycheck.

Then I sat in something on the subway and didn’t realize it until I got home and found a dark stain across the ass of my jeans.

Then came the eviction notice.

I’d already been scraping by on savings, so without a job, rent went from difficult to impossible fast. I did the only thing left that didn’t involve sleeping on the subway and asked my boyfriend of a year and a half if I could stay with him until I got back on my feet.

He said no; his studio had no space for me.

All of that happened in less than a month.

So, naturally, I swallowed what little pride I had left and called the woman I hadn’t spoken to in eight years.

My mother.

Which is how I ended up flying across the country to Colorado after one canceled flight, another delayed one, and a single, completely vague text from her when I landed.

Mom: I’ll send someone to pick you up.

Which brings me to my current situation: me vs. my suitcase, and it's winning, with what feels like twenty bystanders watching my struggle.

For the second time, I attempt to wrangle my luggage off the baggage belt, blowing a dark strand of hair from my eyes. My bag weighs about as much as my dread does, and I paid extra for it.

Stumbling after my suitcase along the belt, I give the handle another good pull, and my luggage topples off, smacking against the linoleum. The hard case pops open and sends my clothes across the polished floor.

Every head turns toward me. I look down, staring red-faced at my pink bra displayed for the old gentleman to look at just as I do, before promptly turning away as he adjusts his thin-rimmed glasses awkwardly.

I, dressed in a large college T-shirt hanging over my cotton shorts, mismatched socks, and sandals, quickly scramble across the floor, stuffing my clothes back into the case.

“Don’t worry, everyone, I got it,” I snap.

People give me a long, scrutinizing stare before turning away.

I zip the suitcase, struggling to pull it upright, when suddenly a tanned hand with thick veins and dark hair scattered along the back grabs the handle and hauls it right side up with ease.

“I said I got it,” I snap.

“Clearly,” he mutters, sarcasm and an Italian accent thick in his voice.

I look up, and a pair of bright green eyes meet mine, surrounded by thick, dark lashes. He’s tall, dressed impeccably in an expensive-looking black buttoned shirt with the sleeves rolled up, and black slacks, not a single dark hair out of place. His jaw is shadowed with scruff, and black-framed glasses sit on a Roman nose.

“I don’t need your help.” I jerk the suitcase from his hand.

He blinks down at me, shocked. “Just trying to be nice.”

“Go be nice, rich, and handsome elsewhere.”

He watches me for a moment, then says, “Hallie.”

It takes a good five seconds for my spiraling brain to register that this ridiculously attractive Italian man spoke my name.

“How do you know who I am?” I ask, my eyes narrowing slightly.

His mouth tips into a slight smirk. “I’m Leo. Your stepfather. Your mother sent me to pick you up.”

Well, shit.

I mentally add calling my stepfather stupidly rich and handsome to my list of embarrassments.

He stares down at me for a long moment while the airport PA rattles overhead about a delayed flight.

I slowly lift to my feet. “No shit?”

He nods. “Yeah. She sent me a photo of you so I knew who to look for. Though...” His gaze travels down my rumpled shirt. “It didn’t prepare me.”

I glare up at him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

He grabs my suitcase from my hand, hauling it as if it’s full of feathers, and this time, I let him.

He walks easily through the airport, past the curious onlookers, and my sandals slap against the floor as I trail behind him.

“Given your mother, I didn’t expect you to look the way you do.”

I stare at the back of his three-hundred-dollar haircut, gray threaded through the dark strands.

“Yeah, and given my mother, I’d expect her to bag some Italian model,” I huff. “What do you mean by that, anyway? Are you insulting me?”

“I’m not.” He glances at me over his shoulder, a crooked grin on his face. “It’s refreshing, actually. You hungry?”

I blink at him, then nod. “Yeah, I can eat.”

“We’ll get something on the way home.”

—

When Leo, my supposed stepfather, said we’d get something on the way home, I thought we’d go through the McDonald’s drive-through.

Instead, I’m sitting across from him in a low-lit restaurant with a menu that has no prices and a lot of truffle.

I glance around at the couples dining nearby. On the way into the fancy restaurant called Ristorante Bellori, with its fern wall and hanging bulb lights, I almost dug my heels in and ran the opposite direction. I am not dressed for this type of place.

Leo argued it was casual.

And sure, if casual meant tailored chinos and cashmere sweaters, then this was casual.

I look down at my socks beneath the table. One is pink with cats; the other is blue with hot dogs.

I pull my feet deeper under my chair.

“Get what you want,” he says, leaning back and setting aside his menu.

“I don’t know what any of this is.” I glare down at the menu. “Is there spaghetti?”

“Yes. There is spaghetti.”

I give him a hopeful look. “And garlic bread?”

“I’ll be sure to order some.”

He grabs the wine menu and looks over the labels I’m sure I couldn’t pronounce.

Just then, the waitress approaches our table with a smile that widens the second she looks at Leo.

“Buonasera.”

“Buonasera,” he replies easily.

She says something else in Italian, quick enough that I don’t catch a single word.

Leo glances at me before answering her. “Per lei, gli spaghetti al pomodoro. E del pane all’aglio, per favore.”

The waitress nods and looks back at him.

“Per me, la tagliata di manzo.” He closes the menu and hands it to her. “È una bottiglia di Chianti per entrambi.”

She smiles. “Perfetto.”

I wait until she walks away before staring at him.

“What the hell did you just order me?”

“Spaghetti, like you asked.”

“And?”

“Don’t worry. I didn’t forget the garlic bread.”

I narrow my eyes. “And what did you order yourself?”

“Steak.”

“So, my suspicions were correct? You’re Italian?” I ask.

His mouth twitches. “What gave it away?” He flicks his wrist and glances at the face of an expensive watch. “We do have to eat fast, though. I’ve got a photo shoot in an hour.”

“For real?” I ask, lifting a single brow.

He smiles wide. “I'm fucking with you.”

I roll my eyes, sit back in my seat, and cross my arms, and he chuckles.

“Sorry. It's not every day I get called an Italian model, from my stepdaughter no less.”

Before I can respond or decide to melt into the floor completely, the waitress brings out two glasses of wine. I immediately reach for mine with my face burning, not bothering to sniff it for notes or do any of that bullshit before taking a long gulp.

He watches me, biting back a smile before taking a sip of his own.

“I apologize,” I say, smoothing my hands down my shorts to collect an ounce of decorum, even if it's feigned. “If I had known, I wouldn't have said that.”

He licks his lips, cleaning away a fallen drop of wine. “No harm, no foul.”

Moments later, the food arrives, and I glance down at my plate.

My spaghetti looks way too pretty to be spaghetti. The noodles are wound into a neat little pile in the middle of the bowl, coated in bright tomato sauce with basil and shaved cheese on top.

It's enough to feed a toddler.

“That's it?” I ask.

He glances at me, then down at his steak as he cuts into it. “That's it.”

“How much does this even cost? Never mind, I don't want to know.”

I grab a fork and dig in, and he watches as I stab the tines in the center of the noodles and twirl them. I'm not sure if it's proper by any means, but I don't really care.

“So, how did you and my mother meet?” I ask before taking a bite, followed by a sip of my wine.

He pushes a slice of steak between his teeth, chews, and wipes his mouth with a cloth napkin. “A charity event she held. I was visiting from Italy, donated to the foundation.”

“My mom and charity in the same sentence sounds made up,” I grumble.

I expect him to defend his wife, but the corner of his mouth lifts, and he nods.

“You study there?” he points his fork at the NYU T-shirt I'm wearing.

I shake my head. “This is my boyfriend's shirt.”

He glances down at it, then at me, and nods.

“Study at all?”

I poke through my spaghetti and keep my chin lowered. “No. Never really found my calling. Didn't want to waste a bunch of money on a degree I wouldn't use.”

He nods. “Smart.”

“What do you do?”

“I'm an architect,” he says. “Own a development firm.”

I frown at him. “Smarty-pants stuff. Are the glasses real, or just part of the persona?”

“I'm as blind as a bat,” he says. “Comes with age. You'll find out in twenty years.”

“Bats aren't actually blind, you know.” I take a long sip of my wine, then snag a piece of garlic bread from the center of the table. I tear off the edge with my teeth and chew. It's the best damn garlic bread I've ever had. “They actually have great vision.”

His green eyes study me for a long, silent moment, the clinking of silverware filling the space, then he laughs, the corners of his eyes creasing.

“Sei pericolosa,” he mutters under his breath, shaking his head.

—

The ride to my mother’s house is silent, save for the soft music playing from Leo’s stereo.

Classical music, of course.

“You’re really one for stereotypes,” I mutter toward the window.

“Hm?”

I nod toward the touchscreen display in his Benz. “Classical music?”

He huffs a laugh. “I wanted to play something neutral. I don’t know what you listen to.”

“Not Mozart.”

“Well, that’s good, because this is Dvořák.”

I turn my head to look at him, and he grins toward the windshield, his hair lazily pushed back and his eyes bright in the sun. He glances at me, then taps something on the display.

The car suddenly fills with Deftones.

“This is my usual go-to. Better?”

I stare at this man who is dripping in wealth, way too handsome for his own good, listening to 90s alternative.

Then I glance away.

“Infinitely.”

Twenty minutes later, Leo is pulling into a long, winding driveway up to my mother’s home, one I've never been to or even seen.

It’s massive and modern, with pale stone, black metal, and floor-to-ceiling windows that stretch across almost the entire front. Two stories of glass reflect the trees and late afternoon sky, broken up by sharp edges and flat roofs that jut out over wide balconies. Warm lights glow inside despite the sun still being up, and somewhere off to the side, I catch the edge of what looks like an infinity pool.

I lean forward in my seat.

“What the fuck?”

Leo glances at me. “Something wrong?”

I point through the windshield. “My mother lives there?”

He looks back at the house, then back at me. “Yes.”

“Last I remember, she lived in a penthouse.”

“We purchased this home after we got married,” he explains.

I stare up at the enormous windows.

“You guys know people can see inside those, right?”

He pulls the car to a stop beneath a covered entryway. “That is generally how windows work.”

He unbuckles his seatbelt and starts to slide out of the car, but stops when I stay rooted to the leather seat, hands clasped tight in my lap.

“What is it, piccola?” he asks carefully.

I don't look at him as I ask, “Is she home?”

He searches my face, then slowly shakes his head.

“No. She's on a trip. She won't be home for another week or two.”

I look at him so fast my neck nearly snaps. “A week?”

Part of me is relieved, part of me is terrified.

“Or two.”

He opens his door and steps out, and I watch him easily round the hood, one hand shoved deep in his pocket. He opens the door for me, and I slip out without a choice.

He shuts the door behind me, then clicks a button on his key fob, and the trunk pops open.

Leo grabs my luggage, then gestures for me to follow, so I do.

A week, or maybe even more.

Alone.

With my new stepfather.

My very attractive, very Italian, very married-to-my-mother stepfather.

I stare at his back as he carries my suitcase toward the house, then look away when my brain supplies the memory of green eyes and rolled sleeves over strong forearms.

I should’ve stayed homeless.