Chapter Thirteen
First, meat sauce—dark red and heavy with garlic, the scent rising with each spoonful. Then noodles. More meat sauce. Then béchamel, pale and silky, the scent of nutmeg just barely rising as it hit the warm pan.
Gia repeated the layers with steady hands, though her chest felt tight. The rhythm helped. She’d been on edge all afternoon, every hour ticking closer to tonight.
A chill crept across her skin. How would Caleb react when his grandfather showed up?
Shredded mozzarella fell from her fingers, the cold white strands drifting like snow. The undercurrents at Lillie Blackwater Varella’s funeral hadn’t just been about grief.
The empty mozzarella bag crinkled in her hand as she tossed it aside and reached for the dollar-store grater, fingers closing around its flimsy plastic grip.
Warm air carried the sharp scent of parmesan as she worked the wedge into a small mound, each movement precise, controlled—because everything else felt anything but.
Despite Caleb’s belief, she couldn’t reconcile Ben Blackwater—who had welcomed a stranger in need into his community—as a man who would abandon a daughter and grandson.
There was more to the story. Had to be.
The plastic handle snapped beneath her grip .
“Crap.” She stared at her handiwork in disgust. Too much pressure and it snapped. Broken beyond repair.
Kind of like her life.
The shards hit the trash with a hollow clatter. She scattered parmesan across the top of the lasagna and slid the pan into the oven. Despite her mess of a past, she recognized Caleb’s goodness. And Ben’s. And Zach’s.
Whatever had torn this family apart could be mended.
She could help. One last gift before she had to leave—a thank you for all they’d done for her. For how welcoming they’d been.
If the medical clinic offered her a permanent position once her contract was up, she’d gladly stay and make this her home. Despite the hardships, this was a true community—people who looked out for one another. A part of her envied that. Wanted to belong.
But it would never happen. Because Vincente would never let her go.
Her nerves jangled. Not for the first time, she wished for a glass of wine. Or two. But she followed the rules of the rez and kept no alcohol in the house. She’d had to find healthier ways to cope—ways that didn’t involve drowning fear and guilt in a bottle.
Wiping her hands on a kitchen towel, she glanced at the clock and hustled to the bathroom to freshen up.
The makeup she’d applied before work had long since vanished.
She cleaned her face. Added foundation. Blush.
Smoky eye shadow that accentuated the blue of her irises. Kohl liner and two coats of mascara.
Armor.
She had a feeling she’d need it tonight.
A swipe of fiery red lipstick.
Done.
Her Miami face stared back from the mirror .
She shuddered, her stomach cramping.
Without another thought, she smeared on cleansing balm and scrubbed. Each stinging swipe of the washcloth, punishment. When she finished, she applied a sheer layer of tinted moisturizer to mute the redness.
A swipe of lip gloss. That was enough.
With a final mirror check, she brushed out her hair until it gleamed, changed into jeans and a blue knit top, then went to check on the lasagna.
Her doorbell rang. Six-thirty on the dot.
She wiped sweaty palms on the kitchen towel and opened the door.
Caleb stood on the steps. He’d swapped out his black trousers for jeans.
His white button down opened at the collar beneath the black suit coat he’d worn to his mother’s funeral.
Gia mapped the firm line of his clean-shaven jaw, the strong tanned column of his throat, his broad chest—and the bouquet of yellow, orange, and purple flowers in his hand.
“These are for you.” He thrust them at her, then dropped his gaze to his boots, hands shoved into his pockets.
She barely hid a grin. How sweet.
“Thank you. They’re lovely.” She stepped aside to let him in.
Vincente used to flood her with flowers—orchids, lilies, and roses delivered daily. Their sweet, overpowering scent still haunted her dreams.
These flowers were different. Desert blooms. She didn’t know their names, but had seen them growing wild in the area.
Caleb smelled like clean skin and sandalwood and spice. More intoxicating than the wine she’d been longing for.
Her body flooded with warmth. She buried her nose in the flowers, to hide the flush heating her cheeks. They carried a faint perfume of orange blossom and—she sniffed the spike of vibrant purple blossoms with yellow and white markings—grape soda?
“I’ll put these in water.” Rooting through her cabinet, she found a tall plastic lemonade cup from the Navajo Nation Fair, filled it with water, and placed the flowers on the table.
He bent to peer through the oven glass door. “Looks and smells incredible.”
She caught herself admiring the taut muscles of his backside. “My mother said it was her lasagna that had men lining up to marry her.”
Too bad her choice of men sucked.
Gia’s hadn’t been any better.
He glanced over his shoulder. Caught her staring. Straightened. “Don’t look at me like that.”
That sexy rasp in his voice was new, but it carried a trace of anger she didn’t understand. Even so, it sent heat skittering through her body. Her bra felt too tight, her skin too sensitive.
She couldn’t stay here as much as she wanted to. Vincente would find her again, and she’d be forced to run.
Again.
But if she couldn’t escape, why couldn’t she at least have the memory of another man’s arms around her to keep as a treasured secret? Arms that would make her feel protected instead of used.
Just once.
She stepped closer. Close enough for the heat of his body to brush her skin. Close enough to see his pupils darken, and his jaw go rigid.
“Please.”
The word slipped out. Desperate. Her breath hitched. Her face caught fire.
His gaze dropped to her lips, and for a heartbeat, she thought he might kiss her, even as his fingers curled into his palms .
“Gia, there’s—”
His head jerked. “Someone’s here.” His voice hardened as he crossed to the window and peered through the blinds.
Where had the gun come from?
“Wait!” Panic surged in her chest. “It’s—”
“My grandfather.” Caleb holstered his weapon, his scowl sharp as a blade.
Her stomach dropped. Please let me have done the right thing.
He yanked open the door.
President Blackwater’s lead security agent met him with a flat stare and held out his hand. “Weapon.”
“I’m not going to shoot my own grandfather.”
Gia bit her lip. The snarl in Caleb’s voice probably didn’t help his case.
“Are you licensed to carry?”
“I do the same job as you. Of course I’m licensed.”
The bodyguard merely lifted a brow. “On Navajo Nation land?”
“Joseph.” Ben Blackwater waved the man off and climbed the steps. “I’m confident my grandson won’t abuse the privilege.”
He smiled at Gia. “I thought I’d check in on our newest doctor.”
“What a lovely surprise,” Caleb said, voice dry as desert dust.
He stepped aside. “Gia’s made lasagna.”
She'd set him up.
The knowledge sank like lead in Caleb’s gut.
Gia avoided his gaze, hurrying to set the table .
For three.
Pretty little liar.
He cursed himself for the flowers—an impulse buy he should've known better than to make.
And for the nerves that hit the moment she opened the door in those designer jeans and a knit top the same deep blue as her eyes.
Her hair spilled around her shoulders, the ends brushing the upper curves of her breasts.
Lust had gut-punched him hard enough to make his hands shake.
He’d fought for control. Until he caught her staring. Then she’d said please in that sexy, throaty voice.
He didn’t stop to think about all the reasons he couldn’t trust her—his body responded to the unspoken invitation.
Hell , he ought to thank his grandfather for the interruption. Another minute, and he’d have been in Gia Barone’s bed, making her scream his name while cursing himself for letting desire overrule every ounce of judgement he had left.
This would’ve been a good time for that whiskey he had the other night. He could almost feel the harsh burn of it down the back of his throat. The fire in his chest. Instead, Caleb poured three glasses of water and put them on the table.
He thought back to his earlier conversation with Nathan. Gianna Barone was an accomplished liar, and he wasn’t leaving here tonight until he knew everything about her. He watched her slice the lasagna and plate it with quiet precision.
Or was Abigail Winters who she really was, buried beneath all the layers?
He carried the plates to the table.
Still… the fear in her eyes when he mentioned her past had been real. And the way she’d looked at him tonight hadn’t felt like a lie .
The longing in her voice when she whispered that single word please .
It shouldn’t matter.
But it did.
His grandfather waited for Gia to sit, then took a seat while his security detail faded into the background, as they’d been trained to do.
As Caleb was trained to do.
Only now, he was front and center. The main attraction.
He took the chair next to Gia. What to do about her would have to wait until this charade was over.
“Let us give thanks,” Ben said.
Caleb sat with his head bowed, silent through his grandfather’s blessing. As a boy in Phoenix, he’d prayed his grandfather would come for them. Bring them home. But he never did.
When his grandfather finished, Caleb dug into his meal. A perfect blend of cheeses, firm but supple pasta, and meat sauce with a symphony of spices lit up his taste buds.
Damn . He swallowed and tried not to fork the rest down like he was scarfing an MRE on patrol.
“This is excellent,” Ben said, complimenting Gia.
“It is,” Caleb added.
A flush of pleasure colored her cheeks. “Thank you. It’s an old family recipe.”
Family.
The pasta turned to ash on Caleb’s tongue. “A Winters family recipe?” he asked bringing the water glass to his lips.