I stab him with my eyes. "I'm serious, Ben. Your family might forgive you, but what about me? Pack my stuff. Now. I'm leaving right now."
He licks his lips, unfazed and somewhat amused, and shakes his head. "Trust me. I know this house. My parents are all the way on the ground floor. They did not hear you."
He checks the frame of the bed, then gets up. "Stay here. I'll get you water."
"Uh-huh, and whose fault is it that I can't move?" I throw him an indignant look.
"Mine," he says and presses a gentle kiss on my belly. "And it'll stay that way."
34
The kitchen glows as stained-glass windows spill soft light across the countertops.
I wobble downstairs in his oversized hoodie, praying no one sees the marks on my neck, and clutching my stomach—too much heat, too muchhim. I need water. I need saving.
Yeah, I'm melodramatic as always, but I'm officially fine.
We agreed it's worth the story. Ben kissed my belly until we fell asleep on the ruins of the bed—a perfect emblem of the disaster we are together. This morning, I found his hand clutching my hips, as though making sure they stayed intact.
I grab a glass and down it fast, but a voice behind me startles me.
"Good morning, Emma," Carmela says.
"Oh, I didn't think anyone was up." My words sound flimsy, and my cheeks heat up on cue because I don't know if she heard us last night. It's difficult to say when she always looks so reserved.
"I always get up early," she says and walks over to me to start the coffee machine.
I swallow hard and try for a smile.
She somewhat smiles back. "I always get up early. How did you sleep?"
Like a woman haunted by the taste of your son's mouth.
"Eeeh, yeah, good. Very good." I turn to the kitchen desk so she can't see my culpable face. "Can I help you with anything?"
"Yes," she says, already moving toward the massive fridge. "Let me teach you how Ben likes his eggs." A pause. "Or you already know?"
"Kind of. I mean, I haven't made any for him recently... not these months," I stutter because of course I didn't, because mistresses don't usually stay over the night to make breakfast.
She raises a brow at my flush.
I clear my throat. "He likes scrambled eggs. Creamy. No pepper."
She nods. "So you know."
"But I wouldn't pass learning from his Mom—especially since you're a legend," I add with a genuine smile.
She waves me off with a faint smile and sets the ingredients on the counter. "Legend, please. Not anymore. Just an old woman feeding her family."
"Don't you miss it?"
"Oh yeah. It was my life—the chaos, adding love to the food. That's why I'm so happy every time they come home. Wish they'd come more often."
I wonder if she'll ask me about staying in New York again, but she doesn't.
Instead, she conscripts me, and I nod like a good little disciple, following everything, despite her being quite an intense teacher.
When I'm done, she digs a spoon in and tastes them, eyes narrowing. She pauses so long I forget to breathe.
