Make Me Bad (Page 46)

The woman’s opponent shook his head before reaching down to whisper something in her ear. Her cheeks went bright red and she pressed her hand against his chest just as her gaze finally caught on us.

“Oh! Guests! Sorry about that,” she said, pushing him aside and straightening her dress.

She was beautiful. They both were. Eli had described them perfectly, even down to their English accents.

“Luca, hurry—go get their bags. They look exhausted.”

I felt a little self-conscious then. I probably did look a little haggard.

They helped us check in and chatted with us about the village and everything we had to see and eat while we were there. The following evening, we joined them for dinner out in the square, exchanging stories about Clifton Cove and how it compared to Vernazza.

“It sounds a bit similar,” Georgie said, nodding. “Beachy town with loads of rich people. God, everyone here is pretty much just fancy Brits wanting to get away from it all.”

“Like you two?” I asked, wondering if that was what had brought them there.

Georgie turned to Luca with a wink. “Our story’s a little more complicated.”

During that dinner, they recommended that we trek over to Monterosso, one of the other villages in Cinque Terre, to lay out on the beach since the weather was so nice and warm.

We’re there now, lying under umbrellas, roasting and getting as warm as we can stand to be before we take another dip in the ocean. We’re in no rush. This entire trip has been about slowing down, taking it easy, forgetting to check our phones. Our lives have been a little hectic lately. Ben’s firm is growing, growing, growing. At a time when most people would buckle down, he’s decided to take on less clients and shave off a little bit of the excess. “It’s not what life should be about,” he told me the other night during dinner. I nodded and tried to hide my smile, glad he’d come to that conclusion all on his own.

In the last year, my programs at the library have grown too, and I’ve had to hire someone to assist me full-time, which means no more Intern Katy! HOORAY!

Our friends keep us busy as well. Arianna and Andy had a baby boy right around the time Kevin and Eli adopted twin girls. When we told the gang we were expecting, they screamed with excitement, Andy most of all.

This vacation away from everyone is good for us, though. We need time to wrap our heads around how much our lives will change in the next few months once our little girl arrives. I can’t wait, but I’m appreciating every moment like this, just the two of us.

Ben’s splayed out on the lounge chair beside me with his baseball hat covering his eyes. It’s midafternoon and we just had a big lunch: fish caught just off shore, freshly baked bread, and vegetables grown right on the hillsides. By the end, I couldn’t have eaten another bite if I’d tried, but then they brought out gelato and, well, somehow I managed to down that too. We’re content right here, lounging and being as lazy as possible as the waves lap against the shore.

Ben’s hand is running back and forth across my stomach slowly, lovingly. My bump is hardly showing, a fact I’m a tiny bit sad about. I’d wear my bikini proudly even if I was huge. As it is, it almost feels like a secret. No one else on the beach knows I’m pregnant, and there’s something special about that.

“Think we should name her something Italian in honor of our trip? What was our waitress’s name at lunch? Giada?”

Ben hums in amusement but keeps his eyes closed.

“No? What about Mopsie? Isn’t that the cat’s name at the bed and breakfast? The one that follows us everywhere?”

“Don’t even think about it.”

“Madison and Mopsie—you have to admit that’s adorable.”

“Adorable,” he repeats sarcastically.

I turn back to the ocean and smile.

In truth, I have a list of names a mile long. Each day I wake up with a new favorite and I’m fully convinced that by the time this baby arrives, she’ll have one of those long, rambling names like she’s a British aristocrat. Katherine Marguerite Nicolette Rosenberg.

Ben shifts and sits up, dropping his hat on the lounge chair. It’s the one he gave me after the frisbee incident, the one I let him borrow from time to time. We both know it rightfully belongs to me.

He stretches his arms overhead and his abs pull taut. I lower my sunglasses just a smidge to get a better view.

He spots me and smirks. “I’m going to get back in the water. You want to come?”

I shake my head. “You go. I’m comfy here.”

“All right. Take care of our girl while I’m gone,” he says before he turns, walking over the pebbled beach toward the waves. It’s not so crowded that I lose sight of him as he dives forward and swims out toward the horizon. He’s so beautiful, bronzed, and muscular. His brown hair has sun streaks. Even after years together, the butterflies in my stomach are alive and well.

I think part of that has to do with the fact that I haven’t fully come to terms with reality. Ben Rosenberg is my husband. This giant rock on my finger is a real diamond, not a piece of costume jewelry. He tells me I’m beautiful and he laughs at my jokes. My wildest dreams have come true, and that’s just it—all of this still sort of feels like a dream. I’m scared my dad will shake me awake and tell me I’m running late for work. I’ll throw off my covers and slide right back into my old life, each day the same, each night spent wondering if there’s something more waiting for me.

Then I press my hand to my stomach, and I know our child is growing there, our little girl who will be here before we know it.

This is real. This is what I wished for on my 25th birthday—well, not this exact thing. Wishing for Ben Rosenberg to impregnate me would have been kind of weird, but I like to think the universe extrapolated what I meant.

Ever since then, I’ve made some big birthday wishes. Why wouldn’t I? The first one worked pretty damn well.

On my 26th birthday, I wished that Ben would propose.

Eight months later, he was down on one knee, sliding a ring on my finger while I did an absolutely abysmal job of keeping it together. In every photo from that night, I have snot running down my face. Eli has one framed in his house. He tells the twins, “That’s your crazy aunt!”

On my 27th birthday, I wished that our wedding would go off without a hitch.

Cut to my dad and Ben’s dad side by side on the dance floor, drunk as skunks, stumbling through the Macarena. They’ve been friends ever since.

On my 28th birthday, I wished we’d try for a baby.

And well, here I am, lying on the Ligurian Coast, knocked up.

It should come as no surprise that I’ve held on to that blue birthday candle, the one that first gave me the courage to change my life. In fact, it’s tucked safely away inside a box in our closet, right on top of a stolen copy of The Divine Comedy, two souvenirs from my early days with Ben.

He suggested we give the book back to Jake. Never. Stolen or not, it’s mine now.

I smile at the thought.

Maybe Ben really did make me bad.