Madison cuts him a look. “It’s good, but it doesn’t hold a candle to Flesh and Teeth.”
“Disagree. I am objectively right, and you are objectively wrong.”
I’ll have to review all of these series so I can take part in the debate. But for now I sit back with my drink and watch the two of them argue. Madison’s green eyes flash with outrage and Seth continues to disparage her favorite show. He’s goading her on purpose. And the more she drinks, the more she seems to enjoy it.
She orders another mojito and leans toward me to confess, “My foot doesn’t hurt anymore.”
“Good. Give it to me.”
“My foot?” She laughs.
I reach under the table to grab her ankle, then bring her foot to my knee. I don’t have a foot fetish, but there’s something titillating about lightly touching Madison’s skin, feeling the delicate slope of her ankle…and drawing a surprised and aroused gasp from her lips.
Seth looks between us and frowns. Conflicted desire shows briefly in his eyes before he shuts it down. “I have to go.”
I pushed too far.
MADISON
I wake up alone in my bed on Monday morning. No attractive former brother-in-law cuddling me on the floor. No hottie with an Italian accent stroking my leg. His hands must be magic, because every time he touches me, I feel electrified.
I walk downstairs to forage for breakfast, thinking about yesterday’s lunch date. For all his “heavy-handed” antics, Damiano was a perfect gentleman afterward. I was tipsy, so he brought me home and kissed me on the cheek. He first made sure I had some aspirin and drank water.
“It’s the middle of the day,” I said. “I had two drinks—I won’t be hung over.”
But he’d fussed at me until I guzzled some water and promised to call him if I needed anything.
I invited him to watch Flesh and Teeth with me, but he simply kissed my cheek again. “Another time, bella. I have to go in to work.”
Now I’m wondering if it was a lie. Work on a Sunday? Maybe he lost interest in me, or I made a fool of myself after my second mojito. I thought I was composed, although maybe a bit loud and opinionated over Flesh and Teeth. Damn Seth and all his soap opera rants. He doesn’t know what he’s talking about.
I gather things for breakfast, marveling at the fact that I don’t have a job. I’ll need to find something to do, but I don’t know what.
Orange juice would really complete the meal, but I didn’t think to buy any the other day. Outside the kitchen window, however, is an orange tree loaded with ripe fruit. What kind of paradise is this? I put on some shoes and go outside to gather oranges. I’ll make my own orange juice.
There’s even a rickety stepladder next to the tree. As I set it up, I spot footsteps in the soil outside my kitchen window. My heart thuds to a stop, dread chilling my blood.
No. The burglar did a number on me. The footsteps are probably from the last person who lived here—Ford, most likely. I need to turn down my paranoia a notch. Several notches
I gather my oranges, but my delight isn’t the same as it was when I first stepped outside. I keep looking over my shoulder. My next door neighbor, Matthew, is in his yard, but he doesn’t notice me until I wave. He waves back, then returns to whatever he’s doing. I can’t see clearly through the privacy hedge, which makes sense. That’s what privacy hedges are for, right?
I spend the rest of the day inside, sorting through Great-Aunt Vivienne’s closets. My understanding is that before she got sick, she moved into a senior living facility to be around other active seniors. She left a lot of random clothes and things behind. Most of it I’ll donate. I could probably just throw it all in my car to take to a donation center, but the act of carefully sorting helps me feel closer to her. Especially the older clothes—if she kept them from the sixties and seventies, they must have had some sentimental value.
“I wish I were doing this with you, Aunt Vivienne.” I fold another funky, seventies-flower-print scarf before setting it gently on the donation pile. “I imagine you’d have all kinds of stories about these things.”
I discover a sequined drawstring bag, still in its designer box. A vintage Baciarvita. It’s a bit flashy for my taste, yet something about it speaks to me. As I set it in my tiny “keep” pile, I notice the sky beyond my window has grown dark. I’ve been doing this for hours, hunched over piles of clothes and accessories. No wonder my back and shoulders are aching. I’m hungry, too. I’ve been so focused, I forgot to eat lunch.
I stretch, raising my arms over my head as I make my way toward the hall. On my way out of the room, I survey the heaps of clothes before flicking off the overhead light.
But something else catches my eye. Movement, a shape.
There’s a face in the darkened window.
14
DAMIANO
Although I haven’t received more than a couple of texts from Madison since Monday morning, I know she’s been all right. Everything calm, no danger.
