“Fine,” I agree with a sigh.
A flicker of a smile touches his lips. But he hides it immediately. Once I lean back against the pillows, he pulls the blanket up over me. “How about some toast with avocado? And scrambled eggs?”
The image of Nico cooking for me brings a lump to my throat. “Okay.”
One of my mom’s favorite sayings comes back to me.“You catch more flies with honey than vinegar,”she liked to remind me.“In school, in work, in life. Being nice pays off. Trust me.”
But it doesn’t always pay off, does it? I learned the hard way about that.
Still. I’m here. In Nico’s condo. I don’t have to like it, but if he’s offering a proverbial olive branch, I might as well take it.
So as Nico turns to leave the room, I say, “Nico?”
He looks back over his shoulder. “Is there anything else you need?”
I swallow hard. Then I take a steadying breath. “No. I’m fine. But… the toast, and the eggs, and the ice… Well, those would be nice. Thanks.”
He regards me for a silent moment. Then he flashes me a small smile. “You’re welcome, Sofia.”
As I watch him leave, tears threaten again.
I don’t want him to be nice.
I don’t want to be reminded of the boy I fell in love with.
I just want this all to be over, so I can go back to my regular life again.
My brain knows it’s best, going back to a life without Nico in it.
I just wish my stupid heart would agree.
Chapter Eight
NICO
“Aren’t you supposed to be resting?”
Sofia jolts, dropping the pan onto the burner with a clatter. She spins around, clapping her hand to her chest. “Cripes,” she says. “You scared the crap out of me. I thought you were still working.”
Like I’ve taken to doing whenever I see her, I let my gaze skim up and down her body, cataloging everything—the color of the bruises on her face, if her eyes are focused or not, how dark the circles beneath them are, if her mouth is pinched with pain or more relaxed.
And if I happen to notice that her eyes are more green than gold in the evening? Or that her stretchy pants make her ass look amazing? Well, those are just observations. They don’t actuallymeananything.
“What are you doing?” I ask. “Why aren’t you in the bedroom, resting?”
Sofia adjusts her sling. Then she makes a little face at it. “This thing makes cooking really hard. I thought about taking it off?—”
“The doctor said at least a week. I heard him.”
“He said I could take it off sometimes.”
“To shower. Or when you’re getting changed.”
Shit.Don’t think about Sofia getting changed. Don’t think about her wriggling out of those leggings and bending over to take them off, the perfect swell of her ass on full display.
Don’t think about her in only a pair of panties and a bra, her cute little outie belly button?—
Fuck.
