Do not think about Sofia’s body, full-stop.
My dick twitches in denial, its movement saying,I’ll think about Sofia’s body whenever I want. Whatever happened between you two has nothing to do with me.
I shove my hands in my pockets and quickly move behind the kitchen island, hiding everything below my waist. Annoyed by my body’s response, my voice is rough as I say, “Anyway. You didn’t answer my question. What are you doing?”
Which is a pretty dumb question, I realize. She’s standing by the stove, stirring some sort of meat and vegetable mixture in a pan. There are tortilla shells stacked on a plate on the counter. What do Ithinkshe’s doing? Knitting a scarf? Playing piano?
“I’m cooking,” she says in a tone that makes it clear she thinks it’s a dumb question, too. “Beef fajitas. There weren’t a lot of vegetables to choose from, so I had to stick with peppers and onions. But I think it’ll turn out okay.”
“You’re not supposed to be cooking.”
Sofia flinches. Her gaze falls to the pan. “Sorry. I didn’t know.”
Shit.
Being around Sofia has me so mixed up, I’m saying things I don’t mean. Or they’re coming out the wrong way, like when I told her about the security cameras inside the condo and she thought I was implying she might steal from me.
“That’s not what I meant,” I start. “I?—”
“I’ll just finish up quickly,” she interrupts. “Unless you want me to stop now? I’ll have to let it cool before I throw everything away, but I guess I could run cold water on it.”
I grip the edge of the counter. My knuckles go white. “Sofia?—”
Her gaze jumps to mine before skittering away. “I thought you would still be in the office,” she adds. “Since you said you usually work until six or seven. So I thought I could get the food made and be out of your way by then.”
Idousually work until at least then. But working from home, like I’ve been the last two days, it’s been harder to focus. I keep getting up to check on Sofia, making sure she’s not in pain, that she’s not feeling ill, that she’s not crying…
Shit. When I knocked her to the ground yesterday and she burst into tears, I nearly had a heart attack. I was convinced I’d really hurt her. And watching Sofia cry like that…
Yes, I’m still bitter about what happened in high school. But that doesn’t mean I like seeing her cry. And knowingI’mthe one who caused it? That’s even worse.
“I’m not mad that you’re cooking,” I reply. “I told you to make yourself comfortable here.”
“I’m sorry I used the food. I didn’t think it would be a good idea to order delivery using my own credit card.”
“It wouldn’t be. And it’s not that. You can cook. But not now. It’s only been three days, Sofia. You have a concussion. A dislocated?—”
“Partiallydislocated.”
I bite the inside of my cheek to stifle a smile. I forgot how stubborn Sofia can be. “Fine. Partially dislocated. But still. You should be resting.”
“I was getting claustrophobic in there,” she retorts. “I just—” She stops. Her cheeks go pink. “Sorry. That sounds ungrateful. I didn’t mean it that way. But I was researching concussions andit’s good to get some gentle activity. So I thought I’d make a quick dinner.”
Pausing, Sofia tilts her head towards the roll of aluminum foil at the end of the kitchen island. “I was going to leave you some. In case you wanted something different from the pre-made meals. Not that those aren’t good. But I thought it would be rude to cook for myself and not for you.”
My heart does that weird twisting thing again.
It feels almost like… longing.
I remember when Sofia used to cook for me. Not at my parents’ place; they insisted cooking was only for the help. But when we’d go to Sofia’s place, she always cooked. Nothing fancy—just pasta or grilled chicken or some sort of casserole—but I loved it, just the same. Sitting at her worn dining room table, eating food she’d made for me… it meant a heck of a lot more than anything our housekeeper slash chef ever prepared.
Shit, this is hard.
I thought it might get easier the more days that passed. But it hasn’t. And with no leads on the identities of the attackers in the alley or at the hospital, I’m not sure how much longer Sofia will need to stay here.
I’ve been on it, of course—pulling up surveillance footage from the businesses near the alley, scouring the security at the hospital, but with the men wearing full-face masks, it’s almost impossible to identify them. That doesn’t mean I’m not still trying, and I’m still looking into Sofia’s background. But without Sofia’s memory of that night or the days prior, we’re at a disadvantage.
Which means she could be here for days or even weeks more. Yes, I could send her back to Hoboken and station some guards at her apartment, like Knight suggested. But in my gut, it feels wrong. My gut tells me to keep her here.
