“That’s quite a claim. I admire your confidence.”
I kiss my way up the column of her smooth throat until I find her jaw. My hands splay out over the skin there, and I pepper kisses between my fingers.
“It’s all down to you,” I murmur. “I’ve never cooked for anyone else.”
“Never?” She pulls my face back to her and kisses my mouth. “Then, I must be the luckiest woman alive. Although, I’m extremely fussy.”
“I think I know what you would like.”
She grins at me, face still flushed from sleep. “Are we still talking about food?”
“Depends…”
I love this playful side of her. I never got to see it in the salon, she was always professional in front of customers, but I hope that she never loses it. I hope there never comes a time when I make her feel so uncomfortable that she can’t be herself around me. I’ll try my damned hardest to make sure that she is always this happy.
A lifetime of waking up to Sara’s smile is more than I deserve, but she chose me too, and I don’t want to lose it.
“Depends on what?”
“On what time you start work this morning.”
Her expression crumples and she wrinkles her nose. “Maybe I’ll call in sick.”
“Sara, I don’t want you to get into trouble for me.”
A sound reaches us from the floor, and I groan inwardly. My cell. I already know who it is without checking the Caller ID. Sara isn’t the only one with commitments, but I’d created a bubble around us and almost convinced myself that we would never have to leave. That real life is for other people. Not us.
“Romeo,” Sara whispers. “Your phone is ringing.”
“Let it ring.”
“It might be important.”
Nothing is more important to me than she is. “They’ll call back.”
Sara arches against my hand as I cup her breast, the ringing phone momentarily forgotten when it falls silent. But before we can pick up the conversation where we left off, it rings again.
With one last lingering kiss, I break away. “I’m sorry. You’re right, I should get this.”
Sara laughs. “It’s okay. I’m not going anywhere.”
I locate the phone in my pants on the floor and hit the green button, resenting work for the first time in my life. “Elio.”
“Romeo. Meet me at the dock in an hour.” We’re way past introductions and small talk. Since Elio grew up in Italy, his English is lightly accented and uniquely him. “Bring extra supplies.”
He hangs up before I can say anything.
I stare at my phone for a second. Supplies means weapons. Ammunition. It means that Elio is bringing me to the docks to kill someone.
“Romeo?”
I turn to Sara.
She’s sitting on my bed, the sheet gathered up to her chin. Her hair is tousled, her lips swollen. Her cheeks rosy.
She looks like an angel.
And I am the devil who will leave her bed to murder someone.
