LOVE AT FIRST DATE

Chapter 16: Her Reintroduction

Adrenaline and testosterone steadily picked up speed and pounded harder through his system, almost to the point of ringing in his ears, as playful hands slowly continued downward between them, one taking possession of him while the other gently nudged his chest away from hers. His brain collided with the inside of his skull; he knew what she was seeking and eagerly obliged.

Beads of sweat wasted no time in assembling across his brow, one breaking ranks and dripping down, crash-landing against smooth, alabaster skin. He hovered motionlessly above her, muscles straining to keep himself balanced and steady for her. He gazed quietly, mesmerized by her busy fingers manipulating his body, like a surrogate toy, against herself. As she diligently worked to elevate her excitement level, his own consequently rocketed into deep space, creating a sudden epiphanic realization of what the expression "seeing stars" really meant.

His chest heaved deeply and rhythmically, intent upon saturating his straining lungs with mass quantities of much-appreciated oxygen. Every muscle, from his biceps to his knees, joined forces to hold him steady and still while she lost herself in the explosive sensations his body was manufacturing for her. The soft moans that poured from her lips, in combination with the warm, trembling grip she had on him, threatened to ignite the short fuse on the volatile fluids warehoused inside, which felt like they had already built to full capacity and were now patiently lying in wait, hungering for release. But he still had such a long, long way he wanted to go, he knew, before reaching that jumping-off point.

"Feel good, baby?" he asked in a low, timid whisper, a distinct tremble oscillating in his voice and giving his awe and excitement away.

He wallowed in her reply: her breathless description of the exquisite feelings his body was creating for her; the subsequent thoughts they provoked; the visuals that materialized in her mind. She spoke through heavy slits and glassy eyes in a rhapsodic voice, uninhibitedly and generously and between shallow breaths, surprising and thrilling him with things she would never otherwise say beyond the borders of their bed.

He watched her eyes close as she spiraled back into the abyss, her thoughts guided by his soft commentary and words of encouragement, gently and sensuously coaxing her sensations and emotions along, upward, onto higher ground. He knew the things that excited her; the words that she liked to hear spill from him at peak moments; the voice level she reacted to best; the sentiments that made her respond in gasps; the expressions she liked to catch on his face when her glazed eyes stole peeks at him.

Her lids opened just enough for her eyes to latch onto his again, driving his temperature up another notch as she softly giggled an acknowledgement with her eyes that he was equally in control of her as she was in him, and without him even using his hands to arrest her senses. His brain ached as she glided and swirled him against the spots that made her muscles clench and her body lurch in response, illustrating and proving the point that her eyes had just articulated.

Tony felt the fever rise again: there was something extra exhilarating about sensations being created by his own body, but neither orchestrated nor executed by him; rather, produced at the hand and discretion of the driver who'd seized his vehicle — or to whom he'd eagerly surrendered the keys — and was now commandeering him on every level, from the physical to the intangible.

He eased himself down onto his elbows to allow his forearms to assume the task of absorbing his upper body weight for awhile, giving his biceps and shoulders a necessary rest. He gasped at the unexpected sensation of her fingers reorienting themselves to the newfound pitch and angle of his body. He arched his back ever so slightly to give himself a better view of what her greedy little fingers were up to now: feeling and grasping and smoothing along him, electrifying already-raw nerve endings.

His knees moved a bit, in opposite directions, and dug into the mattress a little deeper, giving himself more leverage, stability, and better distribution of his weight while simultaneously eliciting a shallow whimper from her lips in reaction to the stabs his movements had concurrently sent to her straining thighs.

His chest and back heaved, fighting to maintain a smooth and even airflow as she released her hold and guided his hand to where hers had been, gently wrapping his fingers around himself, then hers on top, surrounding his.

"Geez... baby..." he moaned softly, almost drunkenly, in elated surprise at her unexpected decision that it was his turn to drive for awhile; that she wanted to take a break to rest, but without breaking the momentum of the steady, methodical buildup of excitement that presently swept in waves throughout her. He peered downward through hazy eyes as she coaxed him closer and snugger against herself, setting to motion the slow, erotic, rhythm and pace she loved, then lying back to enjoy the ride.

"I can read your mind. You've been dying to take over," she seductively hit it on the head in a soft whisper, her impish grin illuminated with self-pride in not only her instinctual sense of the things he liked, but her perfect timing, as well.

"You've been dying to feel the rush you get when I do," he busted her back, panting with a soft, seductive grin and applying a little more pressure to punctuate his point.

Her body tensed and jolted in response to his series of smooth swerves and turns and overall handling of the slippery road. With a soft chuckle, he returned her toy to her when her brattish hands greedily wrestled him for control again, inadvertently accelerating his excitement level to an unacceptably dangerous speed that had quickly steered him way too close to the edge of the cliff. He reached down to gently unhand her before it was too late, having to softly argue and pry a few fingers loose before lowering his full body on top of hers.

His head dropped down alongside hers and he closed his eyes. He needed to rest and collect himself; to assign his mind to other things for just a brief few moments. He thought about the guy who'd originally coined "seeing stars" and wondered how many centuries ago the phrase had been born, deciding that the guy had likely been Adam upon jumping Eve's bones in the Garden of Eden before they'd ultimately gotten themselves thrown out for lewd and lascivious conduct, among other ungodly violations.

"Hold me, baby," he directed her in the midst of a deep, euphoric sigh, suddenly experiencing another out-of-the-blue reality flash that this was all actually happening, and needing to feel himself in her possession. The emotions saturating his every molecule were mutual and thrilling and more than ample in quantity and quality to fill a lifetime or two, or three, or twelve — a startling reality that he still found difficult to believe and reckon with.

After lying quietly and asthmatically together for a few soul-fortifying minutes, he felt her magical hands on the move again: fingertips swirling soft circles around his shoulders and into the crook of his back. He kissed his way gently around her face and neck between deep breaths and shameless thoughts. His hand filled itself with silky flesh, the peak of which slid between his fingers and skimmed his palm, tickling his skin. He burrowed in, tighter and tenser; his tongue slid between her lips and feasted with force, breaking away sporadically to beg her not to stop what she had begun doing to him in the new playground her hands had found for themselves.

Oh, God. He was so ready. He needed in, he knew. Badly. Urgently. Now. Taking it upon himself to personally throw the estrogen goddesses out on their heads, he grumbled impatiently while Michelle took precautions to protect the mattress from likely ruination, cursing her tidiness gene to hell and damnation under his breath.

Finally inside his arms, he entered her with a fury, holding her tightly and crashing against her, outside and in, listening to involuntary whimpers depart from his throat as she cried out loudly in a mixture of surprise and ecstasy in sync with the blunt force of his movements.

"Honey..." she gasped hard, clinging to him with nails dragging and digging sharply into his skin, trying to speak but unable to cohesively pull her words together. But he knew what she wanted and was already actively on the case.

"Yes, baby, I know," he panted hard, maintaining the fury, force, and depth of his thrusts at the expense of his sanity.

One arm tightened around her body; his hand cupping the back of her head closed around a fistful of curls and tugged her hair to tip her head back from his chest. Her face glistened with sweat. Damp, matted curls framed her flushed complexion. He saw her eyes creep open just enough to fixate on his, wincing in rhythm with his forceful stabs. The small, barely discernible punch-drunk smile he loved materialized in the corners of her mouth.

He knew where her mind and body were, just baby steps behind his own. Her muscles were flinching against him. He could feel her steadily climbing. He modified his speed, but not his force, injecting the subtlest circular motions into his hips with each crash he landed against her.

"That's it, baby..." he gently whispered, watching her face begin to contort and feeling her muscles twitch in his arms. "That's my girl," he softly coaxed her onward and upward, gripping her hair tighter and kissing her face, feeling his muscles clenching and straining hard to hold back the river of fire burning out of control inside him.

"Honey—" she panted in a shallow, quavering voice.

"I know, baby," he smiled, reading her emotions like a book printed in billboard-sized type; reading her body even easier, from the telltale signs of her sporadic grips.

"Honey... I'm..."

Hollow, gasping moans muffled and extinguished her own words. He groaned hard in response, feeling at the point of physical pain and not daring to accelerate his speed to the level his mind ached for.

"I know, baby, you're almost there," he whispered gently through what little breath he had left in his lungs, softly coaxing and luring her closer to the edge. "God, baby, I'm — I'm dying to feel you..."

Her timing was his salvation. There wasn't another word he could've gotten out of his mouth, or at least not softly or calmly, as he felt her beginning to wrench in his arms, instantly kicking his body into high speed. His hand pulled back on her hair, his lips in frantic search of hers. His mouth clamped down but wouldn't seal. His face muscles were no longer cooperating or taking commands; his brain was no longer issuing them, having seemingly come to a frozen standstill. Her body began buckling hard. Her throaty cries were all around him. He slammed hard and deep and uncontrollably as blackness overtook him for a flash before all he could see was stars.

"God," he moaned for about the eightieth time after what felt like an hour of crushing her beneath him with the full weight of his lifeless body, but finally feeling strong enough to at least lift his head enough to see if she was still alive.

"Invoking the name of the Lord at a time like this," she weezed for air. "That's gotta be a sin of some kind," she assured him as he kissed her damp face as best he could with partially paralyzed lips before somehow managing to relocate himself facedown beside her. His arms moved up to wrap themselves around the pillow that his head had since collapsed into. It wasn't the best position for breathing, but there was little he could do about it.

"Do you think we can get through one quick shower?" Michelle asked with a sigh of relief as she began ingesting oxygen at a normal human rate again. "Y'know, just soaping up and rinsing off, like the rest of the world does?"

"My faucets are drained, baby," he panted into the pillow with a broad smile and sealed eyes, "so I wouldn't worry too much about it. We may —we may have to do a bath, in fact. I'm not so sure I can stand."

Michelle wanted to lie there in bliss as badly as he, but the alarm on his watch sounded. He ignored it, forcing her to have to prop herself up and search for his wrist beneath his pillow.

"Yeah, well, you'd better start doing some warm-ups, in that case," she groaned as she dragged herself to her feet, determined to get herself into gear with only a scant fifteen minutes to pull herself together. "We're into overtime, dear," she reminded him.

"That's your fault," he smiled dreamily, burrowing his face a little deeper into the pillow and luxuriating in the extreme comfort that blanketed him, head to toe. "I was at the goal post five minutes before you finally decided to make an appearance," he teased her.

"Yes, well, regardless," she said, nudging him to get himself into action, to absolutely no avail, "that doorbell's gonna be ringing a mere fourteen minutes from now."

"Twenty-nine. Minimum," he corrected her, still dreamily hugging his pillow and refusing to budge despite the tingling sensation resonating from the light encouragement she'd just delivered to his haunch. "My Mom's never been on time for a thing in her life. Not even Olivia's birth," he reminded her of his sister's celebrated entry into the world via the backseat of a limousine, which had nearly given Lou a heart attack upon realizing that obstetrics services had suddenly been added to his job description, with no prior warning or notice.

"Get moving, mister," Michelle grumbled, heading for the bathroom to get the shower started. Reluctantly, he pushed himself up with his hands and onto his feet, knowing how nervous and anxious she was about making a good second impression on his Dad and not wanting to upset her any more than she was already hard at work doing herself.

He tried to keep the mood cheery and light throughout the tedious regimen of showering, shaving and dressing, finally giving up as he watched her fuss nervously with her hair. He could feel her body trembling a little as he buttoned up the back of her dress and tried to assure her, yet again, that everything was going to be just fine, but he knew she was only processing every couple of words he said.

"We should make some fresh coffee," she anxiously suggested.

"I'll do it," he volunteered, sliding into a clean pair of jeans.

"I'll get the stuff out for you," she nervously offered, heading toward the bedroom door.

"No, I'll — Okay, honey," he responded, figuring it was probably best for her to focus her mind on anything other than the rehabilitation speech he knew she was rehearsing in her head, even if her mental break was only for a minute or two. He smiled to himself, charmed and even complimented by how important she felt it was to ingratiate herself with his Dad, and how determined she was to make a proper presentation this time around.

"HON-eeeeeeey!" Michelle's voice shrilly screeched out from the living room at volume and pitch levels nearly as high as the screams she had earlier awoken to. Tony suddenly found himself flying up the hallway. Every hair on his body was standing at full attention, reminiscent of the way he often arose back in boot camp when his Drill Sergeant would frequently welcome recruits to the dawn of a glorious new day by exploding a hand grenade a short distance from the barracks.

"Oh, my God!" her voice shreiked again, equally as loudly and elevated in octave as he skidded around the hallway corner, nearly overshooting it from the speed at which he'd made his approach. "You didn't have to do this!" she breathlessly squealed, completely awestruck, overwhelmed, and visibly pale with surprise over the dozen rare pink roses she cradled in her arms. "That was so sweeeeeeeeet of you!"

"Uhhh..."

"Pink Albas? How did you even know they were my favorite?" she prattled on in a state of blissful glee, feeling her heart beating so hard with excitement that she thought it might burst at the seams if she didn't calm herself down soon. "Please tell me you didn't call and ask my aunts. Oh, my God. 'Belle Amour,'" she gushed, tenderly annunciating the formal name of her favorite roses.

"I love you, too, baby, but look, umm..."

"They must have cost a fortune this time of year!"

"Uhh... honey?" he nervously sputtered, his stomach turning with the realization that he was going to have to break yet another difficult truth to her, and only minutes before his parents would be walking through the door. He wondered for a fleeting moment if it wouldn't have been a better idea to have just cut his hand off instead of agreeing, like an idiot, to always tell her the truth.

"You shouldn't have," she turned and mock-scolded with a chastising frown of disapproval.

"Sweetheart, I, uhh... Actually, I didn't... "

Michelle blinked and shook her head a little, not quite sure she understood what he was trying to say and wondering if she had even heard him correctly.

"You didn't what, dear," she softly inquired, feeling somewhat confused upon reading his face and particularly interested in knowing the source of the guilt that oozed from his eyes.

"They're, umm... Well, y'see, they're not exactly... How do I put this..."

"Not exactly... for me?" she hesitantly helped him out in a small, timorous voice, her tone underscored by the horror that suddenly gripped her in the gut, fearing she had just foolishly and mistakenly opened a box of flowers he had actually ordered for someone else; like, his mother, for whatever reason or occasion; or Mrs. Sanchez, who might've forgotten to take them, given the scuffle that appeared to be going on in the living room as they had been preparing to make their departure. She suddenly felt a little dizzy.

"No, no, no... They're yours, honey," Tony quickly endeavored to set at least that much of the record straight. "Only, y'see, uhh..."

Now she was thoroughly confused. He was right: they were intended for her, she knew. She distinctly recalled the card having clearly said "baby" and "all my love," neither sentiment of which would seem to apply to either his housekeeper or mother.

Tony stared as she quickly rummaged around for the card, shaking her head in befuddlement. How many times in one day was he expected to disappoint her, for cryssake, he thought with a deep sigh, turning and moving toward the kitchen with his fingertips clawing his brow in frustration.

"Y'know, I hate this promise ya made me make, Michelle," he whined in annoyance as she laid the roses back in the box and crossed her arms, patiently awaiting his explanation with a stern frown dug firmly into her brow.

Stooped over with his head buried in the refrigerator, Tony took an unusually long time to decide between the milk and the grape juice, finally settling on the milk; then buying more time for himself gesturing with the bottle to ask if Michelle wanted any. He heard her sigh again, as though quickly running out of patience, while he took another excessively long chunk of time to slowly pour the milk into the glass, using the precious remaining seconds to calm himself and gather his thoughts.

Between gulps of cold milk that nearly gave him a brain-freeze, like frozen Margaritas were notorious for doing, he explained to her that his Dad had actually sent them, feeling that he himself would be too up to his ears in trying to explain and atone for the barbiturate cocktail he'd inadvertently served her last night. He breathed a deep sigh of relief when Michelle simply shook her head at the end of his babbling explanation and dismissed the matter entirely, commenting that the gesture had been made with good faith and intentions, then reiterating how gorgeous the roses were.

"No one called your aunts, either, y'know. My Dad's just psychic," Tony grinned, still beaming with elation at having been let off the hook so quickly and easily and seriously considering celebrating with another glass of milk, only this time going to hell with himself with a ton of chocolate syrup stirred into it.

"Well, however they got here, they're lovely," Michelle smiled, standing over the box and caressing the delicate, fragrant petals, charmed and intrigued by the notion of a Dad going out of his way to do such a sweet and considerate thing like that for his son.

Having lost her own parents when she was an infant, she'd always been intrigued by the interrelations that classically transpired among members of traditional family units: stable households headed by happily married parental figures with an average of 2.2 offspring. But her thoughts were quickly brought to a sudden gut-punching halt at the dreaded sound of the doorbell.

Michelle felt her breath catch, not even cognizent of her feet having taken a few automatic steps backward, therein creating more distance between herself and door.

"Everything will be fine, baby," Tony gently reassured her over his shoulder as he flipped the bolt and reached for the knob.

"Darling!" his Mom's voice merrily echoed in from the hallway.

"We're only here for a minute, chief," his Dad's voice took up the rear as his parents made their usual cheery entrance into the apartment. "I hear some lovely china doll is under the absurd impression that she owes an apology," Jim Almeida said, kissing his son's cheek, then turning slowly and arching an eyebrow directly at Michelle. "Come here, young lady. None of this nonsense, hmm?" he mock-sternly ordered, extending an inviting arm out to her and chuckling to himself as he studied the blushed, wide-eyed and timid expression that had instantaneously washed across the beauty's face.

All the words Michelle had rehearsed up to that point suddenly flew out the window as her feet began transporting her across the floor on their own volition. She felt herself instantly drawn, like a magnet, into the strong, Old Spice-saturated arm that proceeded to promptly and gently swallow her into a warm, full embrace.

Tony beamed at the sight, suddenly reminded that Michelle had never known the experience of growing up with a father, much less one as fraternal, mesmeric, and gentlemanly as his own, and felt grateful that — with luck, and the gods on his side — she would soon be inheriting Jim Almeida, the first father she would ever officially know.

"Mr. Almeida, about last night," Michelle offered in a timid, somewhat quavering voice, but directly and determinedly into his eyes, "I really am just so terribly sorry about—"

"The only one who need apologize around here is Mrs. Almeida," Jim softly but firmly cut her off with a reassuring squeeze, arching an eyebrow toward his wife. "Isn't that right, sweetheart?"

"Yes, yes, of course," Amanda flittered repentantly, wrestling Michelle from her husband's embrace and taking her into her delicate arms, maternally fussing and rearranging the curls that framed her lightly blushed face, just as her hairdresser Jose would do to everyone in the room if he were there. "I couldn't sleep a wink all night, darling. I can't tell you how upset and remorseful I am about what happened. Really, I had no idea Joyce was back on those wretched downs again."

Jim Almeida quietly and disapprovingly frowned in response to Amanda's knowledge and use of the common street vernacular for barbiturates.

"Can you ever forgive me, darling?" Amanda moaned apologetically as Michelle assured her with an affirmative nod, reluctantly releasing her after her husband had stepped up and gently pried her hands off her hostage.

Amanda moved on to her son and kissed his face, then launched into feigning complete and utter surprise at the sight of the pink roses that had peripherally caught her eye. She rushed over and gathered them up, surveying and fussing over each blossom as though they'd been tipped in gold.

"Ohhhhhhhhh, aren't these simply lovely!" she chirped breathlessly with the pure, unadulterated astonishment of an Oscar award-winner wannabe. "Are these for Michelle?" she over-dramatically cooed. "How perfectly thoughtful of you, darling!" she complimented her son.

"She knows, Mom," Tony informed her, shaking his head.

"Oh," Amanda replied, her squeal instantly dropping to normal speaking levels. "I'll just put them in water, in that case," she regrouped on the spot, like a seasoned combat soldier accustomed to taking a bullet every now again and brushing it off as nothing more than all part of the job.

As she took a step toward the kitchen in search of the crystal vase she had given her son years ago as a housewarming gift, Tony caught her by the forearm and brought her over to him.

"Thank you, by the way," he added with a warm smile, laced with remnants of the chuckle he'd just enjoyed at her expense.

Amanda was shocked into momentary speechlessness as her son freed her hands of the flowers and drew her in for a wholly unexpected hug.

"For what?" Amanda asked in astonishment.

"I dunno, Ma," he said, just feeling like holding her for minute, given how long he realized it had been since the last time. "For placing the call. Your ribbons always give ya away, y'know," he informed her with a light peck to the side of her head, catching a glance of his Dad, whose face was sporting a small, satisfied grin, pleased that their conversation last night had apparently made an impact to some degree.

"My God, he's still growing," Amanda moaned aloud to herself, suddenly noticing a height difference that didn't seem to be there the last time she had clandestinely sized him up.

"You're wearing flat shoes, Ma," Tony said, comically rolling his eyes at his Dad and Michelle.

His Mom's hands began lovingly swirling around his body in her usual, casual, stealthy attempt to check for weight loss or whatever other physical abnormalities he might be trying to hide from her. He shook his head in amusement, but graciously and cooperatively endured the maternal frisk his Mom had been subjecting him to since the day he had moved out of the nest.

As Amanda completed her inspection, her hand moved on to fondly pat the back pocket of his jeans. Jim Almeida used his eyes to razz his son from across the room, then gave Michelle's shoulder a squeeze and chuckled under his breath when she giggled heartily at the sight of Tony's pained expression, his eyes arched to the heavens as if begging to know "Why me?"

"This used to be all mine at one time," Amanda sentimentally despaired, fondly patting her former baby's derriere with a deep sigh of melancholy while Tony's eyes suggested to his Dad that now might be a good time to break out the violin. "I used to take such good care of it, too. Never a rash. Not one. I could've won a prize. A blue ribbon. I'm quite sure of it," she couldn't help but boast in retrospect. "Isn't that right, darling?" she checked with her husband.

"I lived in constant fear of the Smithsonian seizing him for us, sweetheart," Jim Almeida dryly assured his terminally maternal wife as Tony struggled not to laugh, parking his chin lightly against the top of his Mom's head while he patiently awaited the end of her sentimental family reunion with his butt. "Your body is never your own, you know, if Amanda Almeida's played any role in either creating it or curing it," Jim glanced down at Michelle's beaming face and warned her with a light kiss against her forehead, touched to unexpectedly receive a timid peck against his cheek in return. "If you're ever down with the flu, you'll be wise not to open the door to her," he sagely advised.

"Oh, for goodness sake, darling. You make it seem as though I'm the only mother in the world concerned about her grown child," Amanda complained. "I'm sure Mrs. Dessler fusses just as much over her daughter," she stated with confidence as Tony ushered her over to his Dad and traded her in for Michelle. "Isn't that right, darling," she looked to Michelle for confirmation.

"Oh, uhh... I... I guess she would if she, umm..." Michelle sputtered a little bashfully, the question having taken her by surprise.

"Michelle didn't know her mother, Ma. Her parents died in an accident when she was an infant," Tony matter-of-factly inserted.

Amanda stared at him in shock for a moment, then at the precious, innocent, porcelain face of her future daughter-in-law, then promptly exploded into tears.

Jim Almeida's chin slowly dropped down to his chest and sat there for a beat before his eyes arched upward at his son. Sliding his hand out of his pocket almost automatically, he extended it in the direction of his inconsolably sobbing wife.

"Good work, there, chief," he dryly congratulated, robotically drawing Amanda into a soothing embrace, his eyes remaining locked firmly on his mystified son.

Tony stared speechlessly as his Dad's eyebrow arched upward as if to inquire if he now planned on coming along to comfort his mother every time she sporadically broke into tears throughout the rest of the day; or if he figured he'd just leave that task to his Dad. Tony responded with an apologetic shrug of his shoulders, accompanied by a telepathic, wide-eyed, "What did I do?"

"It's all right, Mrs. Almeida, really," Michelle semi-frantically swore on her honor. "My two aunts raised me. I had a wonderful childhood," she attested, taking a moment to turn and shoot a chastising frown at the oaf who'd made his mother cry.

"She was gonna find out at some point," Tony said in defense of himself, with the same wide-eyed, mystified shrug he'd given his Dad.

"There, there, sweetheart," Jim consoled Amanda, prying her arms off Michelle, whom he comforted with a warm smile. "Mrs. Almeida was born with an over-active maternal gene, is all," he explained with a wink before motioning his son with a nod of the chin to get the door.

Tony snapped into action, holding it open as Amanda sniffled condolences to Michelle for her tragic loss.

"She's fine, Ma," he said in a pleading, apologetic voice. "It was a long time ago. She was just a baby. She doesn't even remember her Mom."

Amanda's sniffles instantly transformed into a fresh new round of inconsolable sobs against her husband's chest.

"It's just so sad," she wept. "Torn from the arms of her loving mother at such a tragically young age — only an infant, darling!"

"Thanks for everything, chief," Jim dryly dead-eyed his son again before easing Amanda toward the door. He motioned Tony to lean in for a kiss, then turned to Michelle who stood a few steps off to the side, nervously wringing her hands and feeling responsible for Amanda's present emotional state.

"You," Jim said in a low, though firm, voice and a finger aiming in Michelle's direction. "I want to see you at the dinner table some time this week," he ordered, patiently waiting as she made her approach with a bashful smile and drawing her in for a farewell hug. "This one will forget," he referenced Tony with a nod of his chin, "so I'm leaving it to you to set an evening aside with Mrs. Almeida, understood?"

"Yes, sir," Michelle grinned shyly, but in sheer delight, suddenly feeling a thousand times less guilty and responsible for the condition of the woman sniffling in the arms of the warmest, kindest, most charming, charismatic, and best-smelling man she believed she had ever met in her life.

As Tony came up alongside her and re-tucked her under his arm, she slid hers around his waist and gave him an overly animated squeeze as if to signal to her future father-in-law that he didn't have to worry: that she already had things well under control.

"Come along, sweetheart," Jim Almeida gently implored his sniffling better half. "I'm taking you to a place where they have these things called 'cows' grazing in what's known as a 'meadow," he wryly ribbed her on their way through the door, grinning at the "tsk" he received in response.

As the door closed behind his parents, Tony let out a sigh of relief, more than pleased with how well Michelle's reintroduction had gone.

"Could you be any more insensitive?" she immediately turned and barked at him.

"What did I do?" he begged to know, suddenly riddled with guilt again as he followed her into the bedroom.

Women, he thought to himself. They were like pipes, just waiting to have the slightest amount of pressure applied so they could spring a leak equivalent in size and force to the aftereffects of a comet careening into the side of the Hoover Dam; or like the force of himself careening into the woman he loved, as he'd just done a short while ago and had every intention of doing all over again, just as soon as he could get her to stop yelling at him.