Chapter 12
Ryker
“Thank you.”
Her voice startles me, and I turn around on the spot, facing her with a puzzled look. I’m standing in the middle of the open kitchen, with two large pizza boxes on the counter before me.
She’s wearing her pair of black leggings and a loose-fitting white t-shirt that reveals way too little of her delicious curves underneath. She obviously didn’t bother to bring her best wardrobe with her, and I can tell that she feels a little uncomfortable when standing next to me. I’ve always set great value on the way I present. Looking clean and put together is a good way to mask my dirty business.
“For what?” I ask, furrowing my brows.
“For… the shampoo and everything else,” she says. “It was nice to take a proper shower.”
“You’re welcome,” I respond before I turn my back to her.
I can sense her presence behind me, as she lingers next to the aisle that separates the kitchen from the dining area, while I open the first pizza box.
“Do you need any help with that?” she asks, her voice surprisingly timid. Was one friendly gesture enough to silence that bratty tongue of hers?
I don’t turn around as I shake my head. “No, it’s fine. Just sit down.”
I have already set the table with plates, silver cutlery, napkins and a small plate of cut-up chili peppers. I always like to add fresh chili peppers to my pizza after it’s been in the oven. The heat while baking diminishes too much of the fire that can spice up even the most bland meal. Not that these pizzas are bland at all, they’re the best I know. But they’re even better with some extra heat. I place a few slices from the first box on a large plate before opening the second box.
“I didn’t expect there to be delivery out here,” Grace says, apparently trying to fill the awkward silence between us.
“There isn’t,” I say. “I have a guy.”
“Of course, you have a guy,” she laments. “You probably have a guy to iron you shirts for you, too, don’t you?”
Ah, there it is again. Lucky for me. And I thought tonight’s dinner was going to be boring.
“Is it Enzo?” she asks, apparently still desperate to strike a conversation.
I shake my head. “No. Enzo was still off duty today.”
I take the large plate full of pizza slices and carry it over to the table, while she takes her seat in the same spot she’s been using since she got here.
She eyes me like a prey that worries about being eaten by a predator, and maybe that’s not too far off. I have every intention of devouring that delicious little body of hers, if she’ll let me. And I know she will. I can see the interest flicker in her eyes every time she looks at me, and I know for a fact that her sassy attitude is just an attempt to hide her fear of me. But I gave her something she asked for, and that has touched her more than she cares to admit. She fears me, but she’s also smitten and confused.
I can be Mr. Niceguy if I have to. And if I want to have my way with this sweet temptation that has been placed into my greedy hands, I will have to make her want it as much as I do. I can’t have her go off and tell her brothers I fucking raped her. No, she’ll have the time of her life with me, once she’s open to the possibility.
And I think she’s getting there, albeit slowly.
She sits with her hands folded in her lap, waiting like she did last night. Such a good little girl.
“Eat,” I demand, as I pull a large slice from the large plate onto my own. “I hope you’re not a vegetarian.”
She takes a slice for herself, and her eyes widen when she takes in the alluring smell. I’m sure this can keep up with the gourmet dining she’s probably used to at home.
“This one is with fresh tomatoes, lots of fresh arugula, thin slices of parmesan and pine kernels,” I say, pointing at the plate in the middle of the table. “And the other is a white pizza topped with blue cheese, chestnut, and truffles.”
“This isn’t regular takeout pizza, is it?” she asks.
I let out a short-lived chuckle in response.
“It certainly isn’t,” I say. “I had it delivered from one of my favorite restaurants out in Sommerville.”
“Your guy drove all the way over to Sommerville and back to get our dinner?” she asks, perplexed. “That’s so… over the top.”
“Is it?” I ask back. “Isn’t that something you or your family would do?”
Her eyes widen, and for a moment she looks like someone who was caught doing something bad.
“Um, I mean, we could, I guess. But no, I have never ordered someone around like that,” she says eventually. “So, is he in your debt as well? Or do you threaten him with death if he doesn’t comply with even the most ridiculous demands?”
“What about this is ridiculous? It’s good pizza, isn’t it?”
I wait for her to take her first bite, and as soon as the dough hits her tongue, I know she’s realizing that I’m right.
“Yes, it’s decent,” she says, obviously trying to sound nonchalant while she accommodates the explosion of exquisite taste inside her mouth.
“Besides, I don’t have to threaten anyone to do something for me. A simple payment is usually enough,” I add. “He’s compensated generously for his work.”
“I should hope so. That’s quite a long drive for a dinner that’s not even for yourself.”
I chuckle. “I’m pretty sure he got something for himself as well. He has more than enough money to do so.”
I finish my first slice, and my eyes widen as I remember something I’d forgotten.
I jump up from my chair and walk over to the kitchen, where I open the wine fridge and retrieve a bottle of white wine from it. I don’t ask her if she wants any and return to the table with the bottle in a cooler in one hand and two glasses in the other.
“You know I’m underage,” she reminds me.
“Like I care,” I retort, already pouring a glass for her. “This is a Chateau Haut-Brion Blanc. You’d be an idiot to say no to it, trust me.”
I place the first glass in front of her before pouring one for myself.
“And you can’t tell me that someone like you would ever care about the law, anyway.”
She bites her lip and gives me the coy smile of a guilty person.
“Well, you have a point there,” she says.
“Let’s see if this can compete with what you’re used to,” I say, before raising my glass to her.
She mimics my gesture before we both bring the wine to our lips. The liquid pearls on my tongue with subtle notes of citrus and pear before it dissolves in a nutty aftertaste.
“It’s good,” she says. “Thank you.”
And then something odd happens: She blushes when I smile at her. It’s just a hint of color on her pretty cheeks, but I’m sure the wine did not cause it.
She looks away and focuses on the delicious meal in front of her. We eat in silence for a while, and I refill her glass as soon as it’s half empty.
“So, how’s it going in the gardens?” I ask eventually. “What did you do out there all day?”
She raises an eyebrow at me. “As if you weren’t watching me through the cameras all day long.”
“I wasn’t,” I lie. “Believe it or not, I’ve got better things to do.”
I was watching her, albeit not all day long. But I saw her bent over the wilted flower beds, my eyes firmly locked on her perky ass, while she worked up a sweat.
“I started by pulling out weeds,” she says. “They are everywhere. It’ll probably take a while to get rid of all of them before I can plant anything.”
“Plant anything?” I ask. “You won’t be staying here for that long.”
“Yeah… no, I mean. I don’t know. I’ll just keep going and see how far I come,” she stutters. “I enjoy being outside, especially in this weather. It’s soothing to be among plants and flowers all day.”
Her words hit me like a dagger to the heart. This is exactly what my mother used to say. She always dreamed of having a garden like this, dreamed of planting gigantic beds full of wild flowers and having her own vegetable garden.
It never turned into more than a dream. She died before I could make her dream come true, and I will forever live with that regret. We lived in poverty when I was growing up, my father succumbed to alcohol when I was too young to remember him, and my mother shared that struggle throughout her life. She tried to get better for me, but her body gave in shortly after I moved out. It was like she only had enough fight left in here until I reached adulthood, and once the job of raising me was done, so was she. All I could ever give her were a few strawberry plants she put on the kitchen windowsill, which was facing south. Strawberries need all the light they can get, she used to say, before she added: And all the love they can get, but that’s true for all plants.
She would have loved this garden, and she would have loved Grace for wanting to take care of it.
“You said you had someone to take care of the garden before,” Grace rips me out my solemn musings. “But you’ve spent no time out there yourself?”
A pensive smile tugs at the corner of my mouth.
“I used to, when I first moved here,” I say. “I thought I’d have a green thumb, because…”
My voice trails off and I clear my throat, before concluding: “Well, anyway, it turned out I didn’t. I didn’t have the time, either, so it only made sense to hire someone.”
I avoid looking at her, because every time I do, it feels like she’s reaching right inside me. As if she could see all the pain I’m hiding, all the sorrow and regret. The death of my mother left a mark on me that feels like a deep cut that refuses to heal. It has been a decade since she died, but her absence still pains me to this day.
I reach for the bottle of wine and refill both of our glasses again. She’s far from being drunk or even tipsy, but I can already see the warmth blossoming in her cheeks.
“Are you trying to get me drunk?” she jokes, as she reaches for the glass to take another sip.
“You don’t seem to mind,” I say.
And then I wink at her, mostly to gauge her reaction. Just as I suspected, the color on her cheeks darkens more, and she shies away.