Dramatic, Mushy, Complicated Love Leah Sharelle (best story books to read .TXT) 📖

“So does Trish,” Meadow countered.

“Yes, but Trish is funny when she does it, and there is no real barb in her comments. Mum, on the other hand, doesn’t have a problem with telling a person their hair is horrible or that they are wearing too much make-up. She judges a person by their job or social standing; in a nutshell, Mum can be very rude. My sisters are the same.”

“Don’t you know by now I can hold my own, Luca? I just want to meet them, not move in with them. It’s weird that I don’t even know what she looks like, and if I am being honest, because that’s what we promised, it is insulting that you haven’t introduced us.”

Measured and found wanting, I nodded in agreement. All that was left was a tattoo on my forehead announcing to the world that I was the worst boyfriend in the world.

“If it gives me any points at all, I sent a group text at the hospital asking Mum and the girls to be here tomorrow for brunch to meet you,” I offered hopefully.

Meadow pursed her lips, bringing her fingers to her chin, and made a big show of pondering.

“It does, just.”

Pushing my luck … again, I reached out and wiped away her tears with my thumbs.

“I make you cry too much.” Admitting it was just as bad as silently knowing it, I discovered ashamedly.

“Yes, you do, but lucky for you, I am not the type to hold a grudge or prolong the guilt. But Luca,” Meadow paused, her hand grabbing me by the waist of my boxers and pulled me closer, “I don’t like second-guessing myself, and I don’t like arguing with you when we can’t have make-up sex.” She smiled through her tears and the heavy weight in my heart lifted.

“I will get it right baby, after tomorrow you will never feel unwanted or that I am ashamed of you ever again,” I promised … again—Meadow’s forgiving nature my saving grace.

“Yeah, you will Spunk, now settle me back in bed and cuddle me.”

“More mushy and less drama?” I enquired jokingly.

Meadow pecked my lips before delivering a semi stinging bite.

“Yeah, something like that.”

To say I had a mob of galloping horses in my stomach was an understatement. In the past hour, I had changed my outfit twice and redone my hair and my make-up. Thank god I had a supply of clothes and toiletries at Luca’s; otherwise, I would be meeting Mrs Donatella and the three Donatella sisters wearing ripped jean shorts and a Bon Jovi tank top–covered in blood!

Critiquing my reflection in the mirror, I was finally, kind of, sort of happy with my choices. A day make-up, with a touch of smoky eye for effect, hair in a half up half down style, which went perfectly with the white corset top that had off the shoulder balloon sleeves in a filmy see-through material. The top also was perfect for my bandaged arm. Wearing a full sleeve like a jumper or a shirt didn’t appeal. The stitches were still very uncomfortable, and getting the thin balloon sleeves over my bandage had been difficult enough. The bodice was tight due to the lace-up detail down the front and the shirred back. I topped it off with a pair of very distressed denim jeans. Rips travelled down the length of both legs, with one knee completely showing. I forwent shoes opting to paint my toes a bright red and adding two toe rings on both feet.

“Not bad, not bad at all,” I hummed, doing one more turn to check that everything was in order, then headed out of Luca’s room and to the kitchen where an aroma of freshly baking pastries beckoned me.

“Hey, Spunk, what ya cooking?” I asked, sliding up to the kitchen island and plopped myself down on a stool, placing the sling that I remembered to snag on the way out of the bedroom, on the bench beside me.

“Croissants with jam and cream cheese, crêpes with Chantilly rosewater cream, and a charcuterie of cheese, Parma ham, prosciutto and hard-boiled eggs,” Luca announced standing at his stove, his back to me. Pursing my lips, I glanced at the huge quantities of breakfast foods with a critical eye.

“For breakfast?” During the past six or so weeks, Luca had come to learn my weird food habits and happily accommodated them. Breakfast for me was not a grand affair, more of a fast food on the go meal with lots of chocolate and very little nutrition.

“Don’t worry baby, I have your Nutella and mini pancakes—” Luca turned around and faced me, his knowing, indulgent smile dropping as soon as he saw me sitting at the island. His eyes zeroed in on my breasts; the corset was tight for a reason and Luca’s reaction my reason for wearing it. I didn’t lack in the boob department, nor was I overflowing, so the girls were perked up just enough to give him a hard-on and not enough that they were sitting under my chin and in turn traumatising his mother.

Smirking and feeling rather clever, I pretended not to know where his dirty mind was going. “And my can of whipped cream?”

“Ah, you’re what?” Luca stammered, still gaping at my chest. The corset also revealed my belly button, which he would find out very shortly.

“My ready whipped cream, the chocolate flavoured one.”

“Oh, yeah … um … fridge?”

“Are you telling me or asking me, Spunk Rat?”

“Telling,” he affirmed, finding his brain.

“I’ll get it.” Hopping off the stool, hissing at the impact that jolted up my body to my arm, I sauntered around to the fridge, aware that I was being closely watched.

“Where is your sling, Meadow?” Luca’s voice was deep and rough.

“On the bench, Luca,” I replied, my head poking inside the fridge, my bum pushed out. He had to know what I was up to, pretending to take my time looking for the cream when