Chapter 12
ROMI
I’m wrapped up in a ball under two blankets. All the windows are closed, yet I swear there’s a breeze circulating the room. Borris is curled into the second blanket with me as I grumble my complaint at the reality TV show I'm watching.
“This sucks,” I complain to Borris as I cuddle him closer to my chest, embracing him like a hot pack. “You’re so handsome,” I say, pressing kisses to the top of his head.
The front door clicks open, and I look up as Dante walks in and says, “Thank you, but I prefer to be called sexy.”
My stomach drops. He doesn’t usually come home this early, and I’ve been avoiding him ever since that night at the lake.
I fidget under the blankets, but he points in my direction.
“Don’t move now, sweetheart. I know you’ve been avoiding me,” he says matter-of-factly as he drops two plastic bags on the coffee table.
The scent of warm food wafts in my direction.
I can’t pinpoint precisely what it is, because of my congestion, but my stomach growls, reminding me that all I’ve lined it with today is herbal tea.
Borris, the little traitor, jumps out of my arms and hops over to Dante, tail wagging. Dante pets the dog, offering him all the praise in the world, and souring my mood. Then Dante reaches toward me, and I flinch as he presses the back of his hand against my forehead and cheeks.
“Thought you might be sick. Wasn’t such a smart idea skinny-dipping after all, huh?”
I sniff, bringing another tissue up to my nose. “Fuck off.”
He chuckles as he removes his leather jacket, and my gaze falls to the pocket where I know his scalpels most likely are. Pulling them out and putting them on the coffee table in front of us, he smirks knowingly. It unnerves me, but I suspect it’s precisely why he’s done it.
“What are you even doing home at this time? Aren’t you usually up to doctor stuff at this hour?”
“I wanted to check in on you,” he says as he walks into his bedroom.
He leaves the door open behind him, and I angle my head to try to look inside.
At a glance, it’s as I suspected. The room is basically the same as when he first arrived.
He hasn’t added one ounce of hominess to it.
In fact, I can’t see anything different except a new deep-green bedspread.
Everything else must be in the closet and the dresser, which doesn’t leave much room for anything else.
Yet he’s replenished the entire kitchen, and we have a ridiculous amount of toilet paper that will last a fucking lifetime.
He peels off his shirt, and I swallow as I admire the tattoos on his back and chest. It’s only from close-up that the jagged scars are noticeable.
A chill racks me as I think about how casually he mentioned that his father was the cause of most of them, and the rest were "occupational hazards.
" So many questions ran through my mind in that moment.
What kind of upbringing did he have? What kind of "occupational hazards" can a doctor have to receive so many scars?
Did it hurt when he got them? Is he okay?
But I stop those thoughts in their tracks, something in me warning that Dante is dangerous, and the less I know, the better.
He flexes, the tattoos on his forearms popping with reds and greens.
His tattoos are beautiful. He is beautiful.
That is, of course, until I see the smirk on his face, forming one perfect dimple when he turns around and faces me.
My gaze immediately drops to his carved six-pack and prominent V-line.
I snap my attention back to the television, pissed by my treacherous body. Even when sick, she’s a ho.
When Dante steps out of his room, he’s wearing only gray sweatpants, the bulge of his semi-hard cock making my stomach flutter.
No. I remind my aching body.
After stopping in the kitchen for plates, he comes to sit right beside me on the couch.
“What do you think you’re doing?” I ask, irritated that he acts as if right beside me is the most natural spot for him to be. Considering there are two other perfectly good seats.
“Come on, roomie, I don’t smell that bad,” he says, leaning over to drag over the bags of food.
“Well, at least this time you don’t have blood all over you,” I grumble, and his slow smirk betrays him.
“It was a slow night. However, thank you for asking how my day went.”
“I wasn’t.” Gosh, this guy is so full of himself.
“I hope you like Thai,” he says, pulling out the plastic containers. My stomach involuntarily growls again. I look over my shoulder to find Borris distracted and gnawing away at a bone.
“Shouldn’t you be trying to feed a sick person soup or something?”
“I can make you some soup if you don’t want this.”
I lean back, doing a double-take. “You can cook?”
He sounds affronted as he dishes out an assortment of items onto two plates. “I’m Italian, of course I can cook.” I had my suspicions about his Italian heritage with the faint accent, bronze complexion, and dark features.
The muscles beneath his skin move back and forth as he plates up the food, mesmerizing me.
Since he’s sitting so close, it allows me to take a better look at his scars—a large one tears down his back.
My hand moves of its own accord, slipping out from the blankets to trace the jagged edge.
A small twist of sadness turns in my lower stomach.
It looks harsh, and I wonder what happened to leave such a vile scar.
Did his dad do this to him?
When I look up, he’s staring at me, those brown eyes darkening. I can sense he wants me to ask about it. To ask about him. So I pull away.
It’s dangerous to get to know this man. Fucking him is one thing; being interested in him is another.
He hands me a plate of food and some chopsticks, then takes his own and leans back to focus on the television. It’s peculiar, but I settle back into my nest of blankets and begin to eat. I can’t really taste it, but my stomach settles, happily satisfied by its warmth.
We fall into a comfortable silence, watching the show together. Once I’ve finished my food, he takes my plate to the sink, immediately washes the dishes, and packs the leftovers in the fridge. It’s strange. I don’t know Dante well, but I feel like this domestic version of him is laughable.
When he comes back, he starts pulling at the edge of my blankets.
I grab them tightly. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”
“Don’t be so selfish; share the blanket. I’m cold too.”
“Then put a shirt on,” I bite back.
“Pfft. I bet you’re wearing nothing but those tight little pants and a crop top.”
True. He finally pries the edge of the blanket from me and then slides under it with me. “Come here. I’m warmer than these blankets.”
My eyebrows arch in surprise. “You want to… cuddle?”
He frowns. “Don’t make it sound weird. Body heat is good for you. Doctor's orders.”
I give a half-hearted complaint but find myself drawn to his warmth as he pulls me in, my back against his chest. “I bet you’re not even a real doctor,” I say under my breath.
He chuckles, the rumble of laughter feeling like some kind of reward. I reprimand him and try to push him away. He finds it amusing. It’s as if it’s turned into a twisted little game. “You’re the first woman who's taken this much convincing of anything. Especially cuddles.”
“Don’t start getting any wild ideas. You’re just convenient to pay the bills and to fuck. That’s all.”
His chest rumbles beneath me again as he laughs. “That sounds very relationship-y to me, Cattivella.” My body immediately goes rigid at the foreign word.
I bite my bottom lip, internally fighting myself because I don’t want to play into his game, but I grow curious about the nickname.
“What does that word mean?” I find myself asking, but continue to stare at the television. I can feel his gaze on me, but I refuse to look up, knowing more than likely he thinks he’s won.
“It means troublemaker.”
Troublemaker.
I try to jerk out of his grasp, but he pulls me in tighter. My heart pounds as an overwhelming sense of urgency to break free takes over. Troublemaker. It’s what my father used to call me.
“Don’t worry, Romi. I’m not trying to woo you. If I were, you’d know it.”
I freeze when he says my name. It’s strange hearing it fall from his lips. But I quickly save face. “Pfft. I doubt you’ve ever even had a relationship.”
I will my pounding heart to slow, the fatigue of being sick happily taking over. It’s just a coincidence. He doesn’t know that’s what my father called me. Hell, he doesn’t know anything about me.
“I could say the same about you,” he’s quick to bite back. I fall into the bickering as if it’s the most natural thing in the world, my heart easing once again.
Cattivella. He most likely means it as an insult, but when he holds me like this as we cuddle and watch TV… it feels endearing. But I can’t let him know how much it unnerves me, or he’ll only use it more often to provoke me.
“I’ve had tons of relationships,” I correct him. None lasting any more than a few months, but… semantics.
I hate to admit it, but the asshole was right; he is warmer than the blankets.
His body jolts beneath me as he sneezes, and I look up, wide-eyed, and then smirk as I lean over to get him a tissue. “Looks like I’m not the only one who caught a cold.”
He doesn’t say anything as he takes the tissue and pulls me tightly back in, and his palm begins to stroke up and down my arm.
I’d usually fight off the touch, hyperaware of anything that feels too intimate. But I’ll allow it tonight, despite my better judgment, because it feels nice while I'm feeling so defeated and exhausted.
Borris jumps into my lap, and I bring him close to my chest, stroking over his handsome little face as I fall into a strange sort of comfort.
Dante sneezes again, and I grab another tissue with my toes, minimizing the effort of getting up, and laugh at his turned-up nose as he leans over to grab another one.
“That's the last time I take you on my bike. Maybe you’re bad luck,” he says. His hot breath caresses my neck, eliciting goose bumps.
“Maybe you should let me drive next time.”
“You’d leave me for dead on the back of that bike.”
I can’t help but smile as I say, “Then hold on tight.”