Letters to the Baumgarters (20 page)

“I’m hungry,” I complained. I’d been too nervous to eat before the
interview. Now I was starving.

“You’re always hungry.” Nico buttoned his jeans, reaching for a shirt.

I perked up. “Are you cooking?”

“I thought we’d go out to dinner,” Mason suggested. “Down in the Piazza.”

“Where?” Nico frowned. He was so picky about where he would eat. “The
tourists are coming back. I don’t want to go anywhere trendy.”

Mason smiled. “It’s a surprise.”

So we went.

The sun was high and bright. The weather had shifted from spring to early
summer, the shade of the canopy on the water-bus a welcome relief from the sun,
a breeze off the water cooling my skin as I sat between the two of them,
holding each of their hands. I saw a blond woman looking at us curiously. She’d
noticed Mason getting on, helping me in, and then I’d seen her looking
appreciatively at Nico as well.

They’re mine,
I thought, hiding a secret smile. I could hardly
believe it myself.

“So where is this surprise?” Nico followed Mason through the crowds in
the Piazza and I tagged along behind. Tourist season was in full swing, vendors
at every corner of the square, people crowded on benches, standing together and
smiling, taking pictures near the statues.

Mason halted abruptly and Nico managed to stop, but I didn’t. It was like
running into a wall.

“There’s nothing here.” Nico stated the obvious.

Shops and restaurants lined the square, but we’d stopped in front of an
empty building, a sign in the window:
Vendita.

For sale.

“How do you like our new restaurant?” Mason was trying to hide a smile.

My jaw dropped. “What did you do?”

“Instead of investing my money in my father’s franchise, I thought I’d
invest it here.” Mason turned to Nico. “And of course, I’ll need a good local
chef.”

“You’re kidding me?” Nico said in English, turning to look at the front
of the restaurant. It was in the old part of the Piazza, the architecture
traditional, beautiful high arches and decorative scrollwork.

“What shall we call it?” Mason asked, pulling a key out of his pocket and
opening the door. Inside was even more beautiful that out.

“How about Dani’s?” Nico offered, putting an arm around my waist.

I looked at Mason with tears in my eyes, overwhelmed with his generosity.
“How about Bella’s?”

“Beautiful,” he said, and it was.

Mason turned to me, slipping his arm around my waist too. “You know, I’m
also going to need a hostess. Someone to run the front of the restaurant.
Someone who speaks fluent Italian…”

I grinned up at him. “I may know someone who could fill that position for
you.”

“I thought you might.” Mason kissed the top of my head.

“Bella’s,” Nico said softly, glancing down at me. “It’s perfect.”

And it was.

Epilogue

Dear Carrie and Doc,

We did it. I walked down the aisle wearing the dress Mama Dorotea made
for me. (She finally forgave us, although she still doesn’t quite understand
our “arrangement!”) Picture (and I’m enclosing many of them!) me walking down
the aisle, Mason dressed in a tux, and Nico right beside him, his best man.

They’re both my best men.

I’m so sorry Janie got so sick and you couldn’t make it! We were all
looking forward to seeing you. My mother didn’t make it either, if it makes you
feel any better, and she didn’t have anywhere near as good an excuse. She never
wanted me to come to Italy in the first place, and I’m sure she isn’t happy that
I’m staying. But I’m happy. So very happy. I’m wearing two rings now, one on
each hand.

I don’t have to tell you how amazing the honeymoon was. We decided not
to go anywhere at all. What’s better than Venice in the summer?

Gianni Bonaccorsi catered the wedding for us for free. He was so
thrilled when we opened Bella’s, said he welcomed the competition from anyone
as talented as Nico. So now Mason is handling the business side of our new
restaurant venture, Nico is cooking, and I’m running the front of the restaurant.
It’s perfection.

And if that wasn’t enough, I have even more amazing news…

* * * *

I fantasized planning some amazing, romantic way to tell them, but when
it came right down to it, the minute I found out, I just couldn’t wait.

I was out of breath already, but I ran into
Bella’s
, past the
hostess we’d hired to give me a little break once in a while, winding my way
through the maze of tables to the back of the restaurant.

Nico was in the middle of poaching eggs and I dragged him into Mason’s office
while he called to his sous chef, “Watch the salmon!”

“Well, hi there.” Mason glanced up at the two of us, Nico’s chef hat
askew, my face flushed. “What’s up?”

I just blurted it out. “I’m pregnant.”

Both men stared at me in disbelief. Nico turned to me, jaw dropped. Mason
stood, holding onto the edge of his desk.

“Whose…?” Nico looked at me, then at Mason.

“Whose is it?” Mason echoed.

I laughed, my hands on my hips. “Does it really matter?”

Then they were both pulling me into their arms, and we laughed and cried
and hugged.

It didn’t matter. We were together. We were going to be a real family.

And that was all that really mattered.

ABOUT
SELENA KITT

Like any feline, Selena Kitt loves the things that make her
purr-and wants nothing more than to make others purr right along with her!
Pleasure is her middle name, whether it's a short cat nap stretched out in the
sun or a long kitty bath. She makes it a priority to explore all the delightful
distractions she can find, and follow her vivid and often racy imagination
wherever it wants to lead her.

Her writing embodies everything from the spicy to the
scandalous, but watch out-this kitty also has sharp claws and her stories often
include intriguing edges and twists that take readers to new, thought-provoking
depths.

When she's not pawing away at her keyboard, Selena runs an
innovative publishing company (www.excessica.com) and in her spare time, she
devotes herself to her family—a husband and four children—and her growing
organic garden. She also loves bellydancing and photography.

Her books
EcoErotica
(2009),
The Real Mother Goose
(2010) and
Heidi and the Kaiser
(2011) were all Epic Award Finalists.
Her only gay male romance,
Second Chance
, won the Epic Award in Erotica
in 2011. Her story,
Connections
, was one of the runners-up for the 2006
Rauxa Prize, given annually to an erotic short story of "exceptional
literary quality," out of over 1,000 nominees, where awards are judged by
a select jury and all entries are read "blind" (without author's name
available.)

She can be reached on her website at
www.selenakitt.com

If you enjoyed
LETTERS
TO THE BAUMGARTNERS
,

you might also
enjoy:

BLUEBEARD'S
WIFE

By
Selena Kitt

Tara’s husband has never shared a
fantasy with her, or even masturbated—that she knows of. However, this curious
wife discovers a phone bill full of phone calls to sex lines and realizes her
husband has been living a double life! Instead of getting mad, Tara’s curiosity
leads her to begin listening in on John’s steamy conversations in hopes of
finding out what he really wants in the bedroom. After several failed attempts
at bringing fantasy to reality, however, a frustrated Tara turns to her much
more adventurous best friend, Kelly, for help. A quick psychology 101 diagnosis
from Dr. Kelly marks John as having a classic “madonna/whore” complex, and she
quickly sets about making plans to rectify this situation. Tara goes along for
the ride, hoping that Kelly may have the answer to bridging the seemingly ever-growing
gap in her marriage…

Warning: This title contains a
MFF threesome, a daddy/daughter role play between consenting adults, strong
language, minor drug use and lesbian and anal sex
.

EXCERPT from
BLUEBEARD’S WIFE
:

We ended up
closing the place down, John and I. Kelly and Chris headed home about midnight,
and I sat and finished another bottle of wine while I watched John move among
the tables, talking and laughing. He helped me on with my coat when it was time
to go, and held my elbow as we walked to the car.

“Are you
drunk?” he asked me as he got into driver’s side.

I looked over
at him in the dimness. “Are you mad?

“Am I mad
that you’re drunk? Or am I mad that you were out dirty dancing with your
girlfriend at my company Christmas party?” John started the car and put it in
reverse.

“Um… that,
or… whatever,” I said, struggling with my seat belt. I couldn’t seem to find
the slot to put it into. John accelerated hard and I was propelled back against
the seat. I was still trying to get my seat belt fastened when John hit the
brakes at a stop sign and I jolted forward, reaching out my hand to the
dashboard to catch myself, but my reflexes were slow, and I missed.

“What were
you thinking?” John asked with a sigh, reaching over and doing my seat belt up for
me.

I felt tears
sting my eyes and looked out the passenger window so he wouldn’t see them. “I
don’t know,” I whispered. “I guess maybe that you might think I was sexy.”

We didn’t
talk again until John backed the car into the garage. He always backed in, so
he could pull put in a hurry in the morning. Then he turned to me in the dark
of the car, his voice low. “Tara, do you know what I wanted to do to you when
you came downstairs in that dress?”

I shook my
head, turning a little toward him.

John reached
a hand out and fingered the soft, satin hem that was riding high on my thighs.
“I wanted to tear it off you.”

“You did?” I
asked, my eyes wide. He was looking down at where my dress ended.

“I wanted to
tear it off you and take you, right there, up against the wall in the hallway.”
His voice was hoarse, and I swallowed hard.

“You did?” I
squeaked.

“Seeing you
dancing out there with Kelly—you don’t know how sexy you are, do you?” he
asked, leaning over to me, his hand running up from my knee to my thigh. His
breath was warm on my face, and I could smell the 7&7’s he’d been drinking
all night. My own head was still swimming with wine.

“You two
rubbing up against each other, seeing your red little dress riding up and up,”
he whispered, his hand pushing my dress up further as he sought higher ground
on my leg. “You looked just like you do when you come, with your eyes half
closed and your mouth open and your legs quivering.”

I moaned,
tilting my face up to him, and then he was kissing me, his tongue forcing its
way past my teeth, down my throat, as he pressed me into the door. “I wanted to
fuck you right there on the dance floor,” he growled against my neck, biting
and sucking at my flesh. “I wanted to fuck you both.”

I gasped, his
hands groping me in the dark, everywhere at once. My dress was pushed up to my
waist now, his fingers rubbing fast and hard between my legs. We kissed, our
mouths meshing together as he leaned over the gearshift to get to me. When he
pulled my panties aside and plunged his fingers into me, I hissed, putting one
foot up onto the dashboard to give him better access.

He was trying
to climb over onto me but there wasn’t enough room—not in his little Roadster.
When I whispered that fact to him, he grunted, pulling his hand away from me and
moving to open his door. A moment later, he was opening mine, and I was still
sitting there with my panties askew, my heels off, and my dress shoved up to my
waist, struggling with the seatbelt.

He leaned
over me and popped the button, pulling me out of the car and crushing me to
him, his tongue digging deep into my mouth. I clung to him, wrapping my arms
around his neck, feeling his hands roaming over my ass, squeezing and lifting
me, pressing my crotch to his. I could feel how hard he was through his trousers.

Then he was
turning me around, pressing me over the hood of the car, shoving my dress up
higher on my waist. His hands moved over my ass, my thighs, and I heard his
zipper and the felt his cock pressing against my panties. He shoved those
aside, his fingers finding me again, moving in and out of my wetness—and I was
wet, soaking wet, my panties moist with my heat.