Fall For My Ex's Mafia Dad novel Chapter 226

Jerome is actually a big help, prepping the gorgeous green dress and shoes that were left on my bed for me, and then picking out some jewelry to match, as I apply my makeup as fast as I can and quickly unbraid my hair and pin it on top of my head. We manage, somehow, to get me fully ready in under five minutes.

“Wow,” I say, as I push an earing through my lobe and simultaneously slide my foot into the shoe that Jerome, kneeling on the floor, holds steady for me. “If you ever decide to quit being a low-level mafia lackey, you certainly have a career as like, one of those people who helps people get changed fast between scenes in a play –“

“I know,” Jerome says, smirking at me as he stands up. “I grew up helping the ladies at my mom’s strip club make quick changes between their acts.”

“Really?” I ask, my eyes going wide.

“A story for another time, Fay!” Jerome laughs, putting a warm hand on my shoulder and pushing me gently towards the door, grabbing my little purse off the bed and shoving it into my hand. As I move towards the top of the stairs though, Jerome makes to disappear in the other direction down the hall.

“Where –“ I start to ask, but he just shakes his head at me.

“Fay,” he whispers. “You just brought me into your bedroom. And got changed. And only one of those people down there knows that I’m not into this –“ he says, waving a hand up and down in my direction to encapsulate my whole being. “So, yeah. I’m disappearing.”

I go a little pale as I realize what he’s saying and I grimace, realizing that I have to come up with some clever explanations later. But I take a deep breath, steeling myself and trying to be as cool and nonchalant as I can as I start down the steps.

“So sorry,” I call to the group still waiting below. “Shall we go? I would hate to miss the reservation.”

Unfortunately, no one fills me in, and so I merely go along with it, letting everyone else steer the conversation and listening carefully, hoping to figure it out as we go.

The food, predictably, is delicious. I figure out quickly that this is a French restaurant that hosts one seating a night, suggesting that we’ll be having the kind of long, wine-soaked, sumptuous dinner that I’d usually be thrilled to experience.

As our first course is served, I’m interested to see that Natalia steers the conversation towards memories.

“Kent,” she says, turning her beautiful face towards him as she spreads pate de foie gras on a piece of baguette, “do you remember that summer that you, and I, and Lenai skipped church and took the train to France, and didn’t tell anyone, and were away for days? God, we were such children then – what were we, sixteen?”