“Didn’t see that one coming,” I mutter under my breath. I’m convinced he’s in his car speeding toward Walgreens when he returns.
“It’s being taken care of,” he says by way of explanation. “You hungry? Take your pick from the menus and let me know what you’re in the mood for.”
I recall the surprise I planned to spring on him before the whole tampon distraction. “No need. I cooked. That’s what I had Matt pick up. You do like lasagna, right? I love Italian food.”
Clearly taken aback, he nods, then appears to relax. Stop being so damn sexy, Moretti, because you’re making me feel guilty. “It’s my favorite. My mom makes sauce that cooks damn near all day. I told her once to buy it in a jar like everyone else.” He rubs the back of his head before shooting me a grin that singes my panties. Wooza. “She smacked me with a wooden spoon and told me to never speak of such in her kitchen again.”
“I’d like to meet your mother.” I laugh at his pained expression. “I think we’d get along well. She can show me all your baby pictures. Were you chubby? Take a bath with a rubber ducky? Wait, I bet you were a bed wetter, right?” Who knew the man had so many triggers? I’ve stumbled on half a dozen in the past ten minutes alone. And why did they make me like him more? Even when he was throwing up in my apartment after being poisoned, there was something special about him—almost otherworldly. But when he’s talking about his mother, he seems human. Like any other man who both adores and fears the woman who gave him life. It’s a sweet side of him that I find tugs at my heart. I’m so tempted to abort the horrible dinner that awaits him, but he deserves it. This is my final retaliation for the blow he dealt to my pride—and my feelings—a week ago, and I need to see it through. What man can kiss a woman with such need and passion and then toss her away moments later as irrelevant? A man whose life will never include an outsider.
Instead of looking offended, he simply laughs at the suggestions I’ve thrown out. “Who the hell knows? It was a long time ago. I’m sure my mom would be thrilled to give you the lowdown on every embarrassing moment in my life in both written and verbal form. Probably has graphs and spreadsheets along with a PowerPoint presentation.” He winces and points at the kitchen. “Before my appetite is ruined, let’s eat. I have a couple of bottles of wine that will go well with lasagna. Sound good?”
I nod, thinking he’ll need more than Merlot to make his dinner palatable. I have everything set up on the bar in the kitchen, and I spoon out a heaping portion of lasagna for him. I’ve also mixed up a salad with some homemade dressing that consists of garlic flakes, basil, a ton of salt, and oil. Luckily, his back is turned, so he doesn’t see that my food is already on my plate. Stouffer’s makes kickass Italian. I take my seat just in time to see him bend over to pick up the napkin he dropped in the floor. Can I have the envelope, please? Award for the world’s greatest ass goes to . . . “Marco.” Oh shit. My silent ogling just became verbal.
He turns, raising a brow. “What’s that, Belle?”
He has no clue how much I secretly love that nickname. I’m not deluded; I know I’m not special to him, but I can’t help but feel that way when he calls me that in a tone that almost sounds affectionate. The blonde screamer probably harbors the same kind of pathetic hope. Thoughts of the woman I’ve never met but heard far too much about effectively douse any lingering guilt over this meal from hell I’ve prepared. “Oh, nothing.” I wave my hand casually. “The wine looks good.” The wine looks good? It looks the same as every other Merlot in the world, idiot.
He shows no indication that he found my comment bizarre. A testament to how much he’s gotten used to the crazy stuff I say. He puts my glass in front of me, then takes his seat. I swallow the lump in my throat as he loads his fork with a bite big enough to choke a horse. His face goes from relaxed, to puzzled, to dismayed. I wait, expecting him to grab a napkin and spit it out, but he doesn’t. Instead, he swallows audibly, then washes it down with half a glass of wine. I must admit, I’m impressed. I expected at least some profanity, but he hasn’t uttered a word. Yet. His eyes dart to the salad, and I can almost hear his inner voice telling him that it must be a safer choice. Seconds later, he discovers it’s far from that. The whole thing was meant as a payback. I should be overcome with mirth—doing everything I can to hold the laughter inside—yet something strange is happening instead. As he goes in for another—much smaller bite of lasagna—I feel a bit like the Grinch. For surely my heart has grown three sizes or more watching him eat a meal that isn’t fit for human consumption. And I have a sneaking suspicion he’s enduring the punishment to avoid offending me. As if I need another reason to be captivated by this man. I set out to prove a point tonight, and instead, he’s served up a truth to me.
He’s a gentleman.
Not one scathing comment. Not one snide remark to tease or aggravate me. After a week of my silence and churlish behavior. If I’m truly honest, he doesn’t owe me anything. Why did I think we were suddenly a team anyway? Was I upset for Langdon? Yes, my God, yes. The kid lost his whole family, and I know exactly what that’s like. But I’m not here as a team member. I’m simply being kept safe. And somehow, not only has he stolen my thirst for revenge, but I fear he’s also taken my anger with it. It makes sense why I’m attracted to Marco Moretti. Yes, he’s a stunning man, but I can now see even more of his good traits to know he isn’t like any other man I know, and that’s what worries me the most. Will my heart survive this?
6
Marco
Fuck me running, this is the worst meal of my life. Then why did you ask for seconds? And the salad—how could you possibly screw up a leaf of lettuce? I had to wonder if it was just me because she appears to be enjoying her food. Licked her fork before setting it down. She’s eaten as much or more than I have. If this is an example of her cooking, she probably killed her taste buds years ago. That must be it. Damn things have packed up and got the hell out. “The lasagna has an . . . interesting texture. I assume the green stuff is spinach, but how about this?” I hold my fork closer for inspection, and she peers down before nodding.
Her eyes shift for a moment, and she looks almost guilty at my words. I’m afraid I’ve hurt her feelings, but she bounces back quickly. “I can’t be sure since it’s covered in sauce, but it’s probably one of the anchovies. Don’t you think they really give it something extra? I love to experiment with recipes and make them my own. Everyone always said I was nuts for adding grape jelly to my marinara too, but you can’t argue with the results, can you?”
My stomach lurches precariously, and I’m afraid I’m going to blow right here. Fucking hell, the petite beauty grinning so sweetly across the bar at me can’t cook for shit. No, scratch that, I’d rather she serves me straight-up shit. At least then I’d know what I was eating. But now, it’s like a surprise pack of random ingredients that adds up to the worst thing I’ve ever tasted. I’m afraid to ask her about the salad. She probably mixed Drano with canola oil. Don’t think about it. Block it out. Take one for the team. Suffer in silence. Don’t shit your pants. Of all the mental suggestions flying my way, the last one is most important. Hell, knowing my luck, there’s not a single square of toilet paper in the whole place. I’ve thought about shit entirely too much since we met.
I take another gulp of wine and almost panic when I see my glass is empty. That’s it. Dinner is officially over. No way can I ingest more without a substantial amount of alcohol to lessen the pain. Fuck, the slimy noodles. Actually, those had been a plus. There was no need to chew as they simply slid right down. “Most memorable dinner ever,” I say weakly. “I… I’ll clean up now since you cooked.” Or so I thought. It was more like an hour later when I could safely leave the bathroom. She’s put everything away, hopefully in a biohazard box. I swear, if I so much as spot a container of leftovers in the refrigerator, I’ll burn down my apartment and have the land beneath it declared a toxic dump.
She’s wringing her damn hands again and pacing the living room when I ret
urn. She spots me and rushes over, laying a hand on my arm. “Are you all right? You ran out of the kitchen so fast I didn’t know what to think. I stood outside the bathroom door for a few minutes in case you needed help.”
Fuck me. The look on her face tells me everything I never wanted to know—ever. I’ve heard women, including my mother, complain about men being babies when they’re sick. That might be the case in some instances, but after you’ve blown out the plumbing with a hot chick just feet away, yeah, not so much. You don’t want to be cuddled or waited on. You simply wish to pretend it never happened and hope to fuck she’ll go along with it. So far, Nina hasn’t gotten the silent memo. “I’m good,” I say easily, then attempt a subject change. “It’s about time for your favorite television show again, isn’t it? Bet you can’t wait to find out what happened to old Mick.” And yes, I know his name is Rick, but I get off on teasing her.
True to form, Nina is like a dog with a bone. She completely disregards my topic shift and goes right back to ground zero. “I looked through your cabinets, but you don’t have anything for your stomach. I hope it’s okay that I asked one of your men to run to the store for some Pepto-Bismol.” I’d think she’s fucking with me if she didn’t look so concerned when she adds, “I thought about asking for Imodium as well, but that’s not a good idea if you have a stomach bug. Wait, maybe we should text him and have him pick some up anyway. Better safe than sorry.”
Oh, I’m sorry all right—so fucking sorry that I’ll be the joke of every Moretti within an hour. I’ve barely finished that thought when my doorbell rings. Goddammit. She looks over at me, and I at her, but neither of us moves. Then a knock sounds along with a loud voice bellowing out, “Hey boss, everything cool in there? I got your stuff the little lady asked for.” Not Wade. Anyone but him. He gossips like a fucking girl.
Nina points toward the door before asking, “Should I get that?”
I release a sigh that’s loud enough to be heard on the other end of town. Then I stalk across the room and unlock the deadbolt. When I see a grinning Wade standing there, I want to bury my fist in his face so damn bad that my fingers twitch. He’s never been particularly smart; otherwise, he’d toss the huge bag he’s holding at me and run for his life. But no, he doesn’t move a muscle. Instead, he holds it up for my inspection. “Got everything on the list, plus a little extra.” He’s notorious for having a juvenile sense of humor, so I fully expect him to pull out a gas mask or something along those lines. Turns out, that’s just wishful thinking on my part. Instead, he begins rummaging through the bag before handing me the first box.
“Stefan suggested gas drops since the little lady mentioned you were holding your stomach. Those things really help take the edge off, if you get my drift.” The fucker is dead. Wherever Jimmy Hoffa went, Wade Moretti will be joining him very soon. Could he possibly be this stupid? There isn’t a man alive who wouldn’t flee from the look on my face right now, but he appears clueless. A moment later, he comes up with some sort of tube. “Big Joey recommended this here butt cream. Says the wife puts it on Little Joey’s ass when he’s got the runs. Supposed to be some good shit. Whoops, bad choice of words there.”
“Get the fuck out,” I hiss between clenched teeth. “If I see you again this year, I’ll let Nic shoot you and your fucking dog.” All right, that last part is a lie. I like the dog better than him.
Yet he doesn’t move or appear alarmed by my threats. What little patience I had is gone, and my hand is scant inches from his face when he thrusts a package against my chest. “From Nic,” he tosses out quickly. Hadn’t seen that coming. Best of all, he leaves before I’m forced to dirty up the hallway with blood. Plus, Nina would likely stop speaking to me again. Leave me one of her crazy notes addressed to Mr. Moretti. Maybe I should write her a fucking note about her cooking skills. Offer her a million bucks to never even think about lasagna again, much less make it. My stomach makes a growling noise as if agreeing wholeheartedly.
I’m tempted to leave everything, but I know Nina will insist on getting it. So I shift the things in my arms to one side and lean down to pick up the bag from the floor. I kick the door shut with my foot and nearly plow into her. At some point, she moved from the living room to the entryway. No doubt she heard Wade’s entire comedy routine. I should have shot him. “Wow, that looks like more than Pepto-Bismol.” She takes a step closer and tilts her head. Then her mouth twitches. “Do you require those often?” she asks as she pulls the first package from under my arm.
The motherfucker. I was so frustrated with the imbecile that I didn’t bother to look at what he gave me last. Just what I always wanted—an economy-sized bag of adult diapers. How long was I in the bathroom? I know Wade has a big mouth, but this is impressive even for him. He was either lying, or he managed to tell half the family about my unfortunate stomach problems. While Nina laughs and clutches the pack of Depends to her chest like her favorite stuffed animal, I absently pull my phone from my pocket when it chimes and see a text from Nic.
NIC: We still on for tonight or are you holding court?
Does everyone speak in riddles now? Even though it makes no sense, which is usually the case with Nic, at least it’s not another toilet joke.
ME: What the fuck?
I take the other bag to the kitchen and place it on the bar. Thankfully, Nina doesn’t follow. She’s probably too busy snapping a picture of the diapers and uploading it to every social media site she can think of. #Marcoshithispants. Even I must admit, that thought is kind of funny.
NIC: You know, since you’re riding your throne. Sounded as if it might be a long-term kind of problem.
So much for being amused. I should have known it was too much to hope for that I wasn’t the ass of everyone’s jokes tonight.
ME: Shut the fuck up and be here as planned.
I’m tempted to throw my phone on the floor and stomp on it a few times, but find the strength to resist. I glance at my watch and see that I have a few hours until I meet him. Just in case. I grab a bottle of water from the refrigerator and toss back a couple of gas drops, then chew a Pepto tablet for added insurance. There is no way in hell I’ll ever live it down if I have a relapse while I’m with Nic tonight. I’ll wear one of the diapers before I let that happen.
I nearly squeal like a girl when Nina suddenly says, “I’m sorry about all that. I should have thought it through first.” It’s getting downright humiliating the way she catches me unaware so much. If she were the bad guy, I’d have been dead many times over by now. If that meal doesn’t make her the enemy, I don’t know what does.
I take my time replacing the cap on the bottle and setting it aside before slowly turning to face her. I see remorse in her eyes, but the slight curve of those plump lips also shows a hint of amusement. I can’t even fault her for it. Not many could have made it through Wade’s performance without falling victim to his annoying humor. I shrug my shoulders indifferently. “In case you didn’t know, men love nothing better than heckling each other. The cruder, the better. Not to worry, by tomorrow they’ll have moved on to someone else.” Not likely, at least without the threat of death and dismemberment.
She leans against the cabinet behind her and rolls her eyes. “It’s a bit juvenile, isn’t it? Making fun of another’s misfortune. It happens to everyone at some point.”
“If it had been Wade or Nic, hell, any of them, I’d have joined in. So don’t be outraged on my behalf. I assure you I give as good, no, usually better than I get. We all pay the price occasionally, Belle. It’s not personal; it’s a guy thing.”
Instead of laughing, she appears faintly disgusted now. It’s never wise to overshare with a woman. They grow out of such childish antics early in life. Men only get more creative and nastier. “No wonder I’ve had so many dates from hell. And here I thought it was simply bad luck. I’d be better off as a lesbian.” Sweet Lord, roll your tongue back in. Fuck yeah, it’s true, there is nothing hotter than two chicks going at it. It’s yet another gu
y thing. Pretty sure I should keep that to myself though. She places a finger on her chin as if seriously considering the matter. “I wonder if Minka would be interested in taking our relationship to the next level? We already love and respect each other. We’ve seen each other naked more times than I can count.” Fuck, say that again and lick your lips. “We have no secrets, so that’s a big one out of the way.” Speaking of big ones. I discreetly readjust as she continues her list. “All men are pigs and neither of us have gotten lucky in a million years. Plus, you can pick up a vibrator at convenience stores now, so what do you need a man for?”
She pauses as if waiting. She seriously wants me to answer that? “Er—to take the trash out? Buy you dinner, piss you off, and break your heart?” Again, too much sharing of information.
“You forgot the part about leaving you hanging after getting themselves off. There are so many self-help books for women it makes me wonder why no one has written one for men. Quite obviously, it’s urgently needed. You’re either clueless or just too lazy to care that a woman doesn’t come.”
Whoa. Say what? Suddenly, this seems so much more personal. Hell, I’m offended, and we’ve never had sex, so I’m not the dude who didn’t bring it home. So why do I feel guilty? I lazily close the distance between us. Going off half-cocked will only make her bolt. My hands don’t leave my side when I reach her. Instead, my body just grazes hers. I keep my face impassive even as I hear her draw a ragged breath. She’s wearing a long gray top and some black pants underneath that look like a second skin. Bad wardrobe choice, sweetheart. The thin material does nothing to hide the clear outline of her nipples. Granted, she could be cold; in fact, I believe I feel her shivering. I lean closer and lower my face to within an inch of her neck. I inhale, intoxicated by her scent. Then I exhale harder than necessary so she’ll feel my breath against her sensitive skin. My tongue darts out, and I take a long, leisurely lick of the pulse beating frantically there. She cries out and shifts closer, but I refuse to be hurried.
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