The awareness burns.
I push away, even though his hand tightens at my waist like he wants me close. The loss of his warmth hits the second there’s space between us, and I hate how I shiver because of it.
Turning my back to him, I head for the bedroom.
“Given nothing happened at the auction, I’ll be able to go outside more often rather than be stuck in here with you all day,” I say over my shoulder, carrying my glass of wine with me. “Good night.”
16
BRONX
Tierney's been out with Livvie three times this week, and every time she comes back, she's less like a caged animal ready to bite me.
Actually, the biting thing is hot. I can’t lie.
But even though her jagged edges have smoothed out a bit thanks to my sister-in-law, there’s still plenty of fire in her. She told me to go fuck myself yesterday when I told her to wear a jacket.
Still, there's just something different about her. She’s lighter, more relaxed. Like she's remembering she's more than just the angry victim of a shitty deal made by her father.
It should feel like victory. The Livvie strategy working exactly as planned.
Instead, I'm standing in my kitchen at midnight making mushroom risotto because I can't sleep and need to control something other than my wife with my hands.
“Fucking pathetic,” I mutter, stirring the rice.
Not ideal, but at least it’s a distraction from thinking about my wife's ass in those tiny shorts she wears to bed.
“I didn't know Viacava men cooked their own food.”
Her voice drifts in from the doorway. I look up from the stove. She stands against the wall in those fucking shorts that show the perfect curve of her ass cheeks and one of my t-shirts.
Her hair is messy, flowing over her shoulders, and she watches me with curiosity instead of her usual hostile glare.
“There's a shitload you don't know about me, princess.”
I don't stop stirring. Let her watch if she wants.
“Smells incredible.” She steps closer, bare feet silent on the marble. “What is it?”
“Risotto. Mushroom and truffle.” I try to ignore the sensations coursing through me at her nearness. But dammit, it’s like she can read my mind because she moves even closer, breathing in the rich scent of the food.
“Very fancy for a midnight snack.”
“I like knowing exactly what’s going into my body.” I glance at her over my shoulder, taking in the way my shirt hangs loose on her frame. “Control freak, remember?”
She laughs. It jars me because it’s not the sharp, sarcastic sound she usually makes. It’s softer, more genuine. “I should have guessed.”
“You’ve gotta be patient with risotto,” I say, adding more stock. “If you rush, it turns to mush.”
“Like everything else in your life?”
“Like everything worth doing right.”
She walks over to the kitchen island stool and hops on it. “Where did you learn to cook like this?”
“Ma tried to teach us when we werekids, but we never wanted to learn.” I continue to stir, feeling her eyes on me. “Nonna stepped in when I was sixteen. She loved to cook and I loved to make her happy. So she taught and I listened.”
“And Nonna is your grandmother?”
