Total pages in book: 114
Estimated words: 105667 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 528(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 352(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 105667 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 528(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 352(@300wpm)
But then, as the trees thin and the small clearing where the cabin sits comes into view, I see it. His car. Dark, imposing, just like yesterday, but this time parked brazenly in my driveway, a territorial flag planted on my property.
He’s here. Of course he’s here.
The anger from last night, temporarily dulled by the frantic morning, flares back to life, hot and immediate. He showed up at my home. The home I share with Shephard, with our girls. The audacity. The sheer, terrifying audacity. And now he’s just . . . waiting for me? As if I owe him something? My hands tighten on the wheel so hard my fingers ache.
I am so happy he’s here. I am so angry he’s here. I’m mad at myself for wanting to run into his arms, while simultaneously feeling the need to blacken his eye.
I steer my car slowly, carefully, pulling up behind his. The engine clicks as I cut the ignition, the sudden quiet amplifying the frantic thumping of my heart. I sit here for a long moment, gripping the steering wheel, just breathing, trying to get my racing thoughts under control. I’m not in the mood for sex. I’m too angry for that. But I am in the mood for conversation. Maybe even an argument. A fight. A way to put all this to an end and somehow be okay with it.
I push open the car door, the sound a loud creak in the still air. The wood porch, the scent of pine and damp earth—it all feels alien, tainted, as I make my way toward the front door. My hand hovers over the doorknob, hesitating. What will I say? What will he say? Will he demand something? Will he act like nothing happened?
I open the unlocked door to my rental, slowly, carefully, as if expecting a wild animal to spring out. The interior is dim and cool. My eyes scan the living room and kitchen until I find him.
He’s standing at the stove, his back to me, the faint scent of herbs and tomato sauce already wafting through the air. He’s wearing faded jeans and a dark T-shirt, the fabric stretching taut across his shoulders. One hand is sprinkling something on top of a dish; the other rests casually on the counter.
The picture of domesticity, completely at odds with the man who invaded my life, my home, last night.
And good God. He’s wearing socks. Why am I a sucker for a guy in a clean pair of socks?
He turns slightly, just enough for me to see the profile of his face, focused, intent on whatever he’s making. My gaze travels lower, to the dish he’s preparing. It’s a glass dish layered with what looks unmistakably like pasta, rich red sauce, and creamy white.
Lasagna. He made lasagna.
The savory and comforting scent hits me fully. It’s a jarring contrast to the tension in my body, to the raw anger that still simmers. Lasagna. As if this night is normal. As if he’s not the man who just left me after violating my personal space. He’s just . . . cooking for me.
He looks up then, slowly, as if sensing my presence, but without surprise. His dark eyes meet mine across the kitchen. There’s no fear in them, no apology, just a quiet intensity that sends a fresh ripple of unease through me. He doesn’t say anything. He just closes the bag of Parmesan he’s holding and gestures with his chin toward the table set for two.
“Dinner’s almost ready,” he says, his voice low, calm.
I walk to the table, my movements stiff, like those of a doll on strings. The table is neatly laid. Two plates, silverware, even linen napkins. A bottle of red wine stands uncorked. He plates the lasagna, thick, generous slices oozing with cheese and rich sauce. He sets one plate in front of me, then takes his own seat opposite me. The silence stretches, thick with unspoken words, with the chaotic memories of last night. The comforting scent of food feels like a cruel trick.
I pick up my fork, but my appetite is nonexistent. I prod at a piece of pasta, then set the fork down. I can’t eat. Not yet.
He watches me, his expression unreadable. Finally, he sighs, a quiet exhalation. “Look, Petra,” he begins, his voice softer, “I’m sorry. You’re right. I crossed a line.”
“You showed up at my house, Saint. My family’s home.”
He doesn’t flinch. His gaze is steady, unwavering. “I know. But let’s not forget who followed who first.”
“I live two hours from here! You drove two hours and parked outside my home and watched me and my husband and my children for God knows how long.”
“It was just half an hour.”
“Jesus Christ. Semantics.”
“I only did it because I wanted you to feel truly alive. I thought it might be fun, or that it might shake something loose. Inspire you in some way.”