“Sit, lass,” he says. And the command in his voice does something I absolutely refuse to acknowledge.
“I've made pancakes.”
“Pancakes?”
“I saw ’em on a post or some such.”
I stare. Are those… American-style pancakes? They're fluffy and golden, with fresh strawberries and real maple syrup. My favorite Sunday breakfast. The one my nonna used to make for me before she died.
How?
“I—” I stop. “Never mind.”
“You make them the first Sunday of every month,” he says, his eyes holding mine. “You measure the ingredients just the way she taught you, and you hum Italian songs while you cook.”
My breath catches. Those Sunday mornings are private. Sacred.
“You watch me in my own kitchen.”
“No.” He sits across from me. I watch the muscle jump beneath the scar on his cheek. I want to trace it with my fingertip. “You cook with the window open. I can hear you from the street.”
Likely story.
I imagine him huddled in the dark, just outside the window, probably under the overhanging maple. Listening to me hum the songs my nonna taught me. Learning the rhythm of my life as if it were his favorite subject.
It should horrify me.
No, it does.It still does.
I shift in my seat, and his eyes track the movement. He knows. Of course he knows. He knows everything.
“That's disturbing,” I manage.
“Is it?” His voice drops, and his fingers brush mine as he sets a bowl of berries on the table. “But you'reblushing. And it's not from embarrassment, is it, lass?”
My cheeks are aflame.
“Eat your breakfast, Bianca.”
“Why don't you join me?”
“I'm not hungry for food.” The way he says it, the way he looks at me, makes it very clear what heishungry for.
I take a bite of pancake, willing myself not to respond. It's perfect, of course—exactly the way Nonna used to make them. And the fact that this brutal, scarred man learned to cook them just for me makes my chest ache.
“Fuck you,” I whisper. Because fuck him. Seriously,fuck himfor taking me and making me fall for him when it's nothing but complicated and messy and wrong.
“Say the word.” His eyes are molten. “And I'll take you right here on this table.”
My core clenches. I can picture it too easily. He'd sweep the plates aside, lift me onto the wood, and spread my legs. His big hands gripping my thighs, mouth on my neck, my breasts, lower…
“Stop looking at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like you can read my mind.”
“Don't need to read your mind, lass. Your body tells me everything I need to know.” He leans back in his chair,his legs spread, at ease. “Pulse is racing. Thighs pressed together. You're looking at my hands like you know exactly where you want me to put them.”
