Dramatic, Mushy, Complicated Love by Leah Sharelle (fantasy novels to read .txt) 📕

heard him say she might be suffering from exhaustion.” As I admitted that, I felt like a shitty son and hoped like hell that Meadow didn’t think that also.

“Oh, that isn’t good, that she had exhaustion, I mean.” Meadow shifted her hand and relaxed it against her thigh. I hoped that the more comfortable stance meant she was okay with me being here.

“Yeah, I don’t know why it happened. She is looked after well, and she doesn’t work. Mum is what you might call … fragile. She has been … sad for a lot of years now. Since my father died.” Talking about my dad with strangers was not my thing. His death weighed heavily on me, even all these years later, it was still a burden I carried the minute I woke in the mornings. However, Meadow was not just anyone, even though I barely knew her, yet it seemed like I had known her forever. Giving her something so personal about my family was as easy as breathing.

“She took it pretty bad, fucking broke her heart. She hasn’t been the same since; she clings to my sisters and me. They still live at home with her.”

“And you don’t?”

Chuckling softly, I reached out, and because I couldn’t stop myself, I touched my fingertips to hers, needing just the smallest of touch of her skin again.

“Five women in one house? Yeah, I got out of there and moved into my own place a few years ago. Kayla, the oldest of the girls, works for me, so I decided a man can get too much of a good thing,” I admitted ruefully. One of Meadow’s fingers was tracing a line from the tip of her fingers up to her palm and back again. I had to touch her.

“Families hey, can’t pick ‘em, can’t bury ‘em in the bush.”

I stared at her for a second before bursting out laughing–Meadow’s colourful and different way of describing the joys of family catching me off guard.

“I have never met anyone like you, Meadow …?” I paused and raised my eyebrows at her, waiting for her to fill in the blank.

“Tessler,” she informed me, “Meadow Lavender Tessler. My parents are extremely weird, unfortunately for my siblings and me.”

“Hippies?” I asked, smiling.

“No, just weird,” she quipped, laughing.

“You know Spring, her middle name is Fawn, and I have a brother Brecken, who has the distinct middle name of Wolf. Needless to say, we were mercilessly teased when we were younger.”

“Well, I think Meadow Lavender is a beautiful name, fits the beautiful woman behind the beautiful name.” Folding my hand over hers, I squeezed it gently.

“Luca Massimo Donatella, oldest of five. Half Italian, half French.”

Meadow smiled hugely at me, returning my squeeze.

“It is a pleasure to meet you officially, Luca Donatella. Welcome to Second Chances.”

That might be the name of her store, but I didn’t miss the double meaning.

Meadow forgave me, now all I had to do was not fuck up with her again.

Not a problem there.

The atmosphere of the restaurant Luca chose for us to meet at was casual-cosy, which worked rather well with my outfit of bootcut jeans, a black, sleeveless halter top with soft straps of silver beading winding around my neck. I topped off my ensemble with red cowboy boots on my feet, a slew of silver bangles on my arm and cubic zirconia chandelier earrings that tickled the tops of my shoulders. I was dressed up but not enough to look out of place amongst the other diners.

“You know, I drive past this place at least three times a week and never once have I thought about coming in,” I admitted, looking back at Luca to find him staring intently at my arm.

“Is something wrong,” I asked quickly, holding out my arm, turning it over and back to see if I had a mark or something on my skin.

“No, I was just admiring your ink work. That is one hell of a tat you have there.”

“It was a bold choice for my first tattoo, painful too,” I remarked, looking down at my left arm and smiling at the lion there, which covered my entire upper arm, down to my elbow. It has an elaborate Native American headdress and a fancy collar around the lion’s neck, with a capital T for my surname and the favourite of my tattoos.

“How old were you when you got it?” Luca asked, picking up his beer and taking a sip.

“Seventeen. My mum gave me written permission and I couldn’t get to the tattoo studio fast enough. That started a love affair with ink that is still a work in progress.”

“Seventeen! Is it even legal to get a tattoo at that age?”

Sipping on my own drink of water and ice, I shrugged.

“Probably not, but my parents aren’t normal, remember. We had a family friend that was an artist and he did it out of work hours off the books. As long as I didn’t tell anyone who did it, he was happy to pop my ink cherry.” Then I laughed when Luca choked on the mouthful of beer he was in the middle of swallowing.

“Popped your cherry?” Luca coughed, in between fits of laughter.

“Just my ink cherry,” I affirmed sassily, enjoying that Luca wasn’t offended by my openness. Most guys I knew got embarrassed by my forthrightness, preferring a woman to be more subdued and ladylike. I had those qualities when needed, but I also had Trish as a mother and role model.

“What else have you got?” he asked, indicating my arm with his chin.

“Just some roses on my forearm with some pretty scrollwork and an old fashion fob watch. Um, let’s see, I have a ribbon of butterflies down the length of my back with a fairy in the middle of my spine. And a whole leg of my favourite cartoon characters and a tiny one on my toe because that shit hurts. All my tats, except for my backpiece, are only on the left