Chapter 41
Chapter Forty-One
RICCI
She leans over my shoulder, watching the stove as I stir the tomato soup.
She’s close enough that I can smell her skin.
It is sweet, and warm, and intoxicating.
The side of her breast brushes against my arm, soft and warm through the thin fabric of her t-shirt.
I feel that accidental press of her body against mine like a spark.
And I realize I’m having the best time with her quiet, warm presence right here in my kitchen, the two of us moving around each other like we’ve done this a hundred times instead of once.
The soup simmers, the rich scent of garlic and herbs filling the air. I turn my head just slightly and, unable to resist, press a soft kiss to her mouth. She melts into it for a second, her lips parting under mine, and something marvelously warm settles deep in my chest.
“It’s ready,” I murmur.
I carry the pot over to the counter and open a bottle of wine.
The cork pops softly, and the deep red liquid glugs into two glasses.
We settle down to eat right there at the island, plates of grilled cheese on toast and a big bowl of soup between us.
The first bite is perfect, melted sharp cheddar on crispy bread, and the soup rich and velvety on the tongue.
She takes a spoonful. A tiny, unconscious sound of pleasure escapes her — soft, almost surprised — and it settles deep in my chest like a hook.
I love that sound. I want to hear it again and again.
“Wow! This is amazing,” she says, voice soft and genuine.
“The flavor is… I didn’t expect poor people’s food to be this good. ”
I smile, watching her.
There’s something so satisfying about seeing her enjoy something I made. Something simple. Something that doesn’t come from money, power or fear. Just ordinary food. Just us.
She takes another spoonful of the soup and nods as the rich, warm flavors hit her tongue again.
We eat in comfortable silence for a while.
The kitchen feels warm and intimate, the low hum of the refrigerator the only background noise.
Every now and then our eyes meet across the island, and each time something quiet and electric passes between us.
I let the moment stretch, savoring the rare peace of having her here, relaxed, sharing a meal I cooked with my own hands.
Then her phone starts ringing from the counter.
The sharp, insistent sound cuts through the peace like a blade.
She glances at the screen, and I watch her expression shift instantly.
The soft contentment fades into something guarded and tired.
She doesn’t reach for it, and the phone keeps ringing, loud and persistent, vibrating against the marble.
She groans softly, her shoulders tensing, the line of her spine straightening like she’s bracing for battle.
“You can leave to take it privately,” I tell her, keeping my voice easy.
She shakes her head, eyes still on the screen. “It’s not that. I don’t want to pick it up.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Who is it?”
She sighs, long and weary. “One of the wives I’ve met at family events over the years.”
I laugh, the sound rumbling out of me before I can stop it.
I know instantly what the call is about and I’m not surprised.
The men are too afraid to ask me directly why I married the ex-boss’s wife so quickly.
They value their lives, but the women… they’re braver.
There is no consequence to their curiosity.
Or maybe their husbands, eager for details, sent them under the guise of gossip.
Why are you laughing?” she asks.
“None of the men dare ask me why I married the ex-boss’s wife so quickly,” I say, shrugging one shoulder. “So I suspect that maybe they would have sent their wives to ask you.”
She gives a small, tired smile, the kind that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “
I tilt my head, studying her. “Is it Annie?”
She looks surprised, then nods.
I smile in understanding. Annie’s harmless enough. A persistent, chatty type who thinks she can charm her way into anyone’s secrets. She’s not cruel, just relentlessly curious.
The phone rings once again, shrill and refusing to be ignored. She groans, but I can see the resignation settling over her shoulders. She realizes she has to pick it up, and reaches for the phone reluctantly.
I pretend to eat, but really I’m watching her the whole time. She speaks in that guarded, cool tone she wears like armor around everyone. I study the slight tension in her jaw, the way her free hand curls into a loose fist on the counter. She’s still protecting herself from the outside world.
I keep eating, eyes on her the whole time, feeling that quiet, possessive warmth spread through my chest again. She’s mine. And no phone call, no gossiping wife, no bruise on her arm is going to change that.
Not tonight.
Not ever.