Chapter 20
Chapter Twenty
Vito
The silence in the kitchen is deafening.
Teresa is sitting at the island, freshly showered and dressed in a simple white sundress that makes her look soft and ethereal and completely out of place in my world.
She’s watching me as I move around the kitchen, pulling ingredients from the refrigerator and pantry.
Her hair is still damp, and a few stray curls are clinging to her neck. She hasn't said a word since we got back to the house, and I don't know if it's because she's still processing everything that happened between us, or if she's trying to figure out how to escape.
I push the thought aside.
I need to focus.
On the eggs. On the coffee. On the simple, domestic task of making breakfast.
On anything but the overwhelming, all-consuming need to pull her into my arms, to feel her soft, pliant body against mine, to lose myself in her all over again.
My cock is aching in a persistent reminder of the pleasure we shared. Of the pleasure I want to share again.
But I won't.
I pushed her too hard last night. I took her too fast, too rough. I saw the flicker of fear in her eyes, the vulnerability she tried so hard to hide. And I liked it. I liked it a little too much.
I'm a monster.
I know she takes responsibility for pushing me last night, but she's wrong. I'm responsible here.
I'm a selfish, possessive monster who doesn't deserve to even be in the same room with her.
But I am. And I'm not going anywhere.
Not until she's fixed me.
And not until I'm done with her.
The thought is a cold, hard knot in my stomach. I don't want to be done with her. The very idea is anathema to me.
But I have to be.
I can't keep her. She doesn't belong here, in my world of violence and deceit. Yes, she specializes in violent offenders, but her life is sterile. She's not meant for this. And if I keep her any longer than I planned to, she'll be pulled in.
I break a half-dozen eggs into a bowl and whisk them with a fork, the rhythmic scraping a soothing counterpoint to the chaos in my head.
Teresa is watching me, her gaze a physical touch that I can feel on my skin. I can feel the questions swirling in her head, the confusion, the fear.
I can feel her wanting me, but not wanting to want me.
It's a heady, intoxicating feeling.
I chop some chives and crumble some feta cheese, adding them to the eggs. The herbs are fresh from the garden, and the scent is clean.
It's the smell of a life I don't have.
A life I could never have.
"What are you making?" she asks, her voice soft, hesitant.
It's the first thing she's said since we came inside, and the sound of it sends a jolt through me.
"An omelet," I say, my tone gruffer than I intended. "Feta and chive."
"Sounds... fancy," she says.
"It's easy," I reply. "I sometimes take the easy way out in the kitchen, but a good omelet deserves patience.”
"You're full of surprises," she murmurs, and I can hear the faintest hint of a smile in her voice.
I turn from the stove and look at her. She's watching me, her head tilted, a thoughtful expression on her face.
"What?" I ask, my voice a little rougher than I intended.
"Nothing," she says, shaking her head. "It's just... I wouldn't have pegged you for the domestic type."
I scoff. "I told you in the grocery store that I can cook when I have to. It's just easier sometimes to pour a jar of sauce over some pasta. I'm not completely useless."
"I never said you were," she says, her gaze direct and unwavering. "It's just... It's not the image you project."
I turn back to the stove, my back to her. I don't want to have this conversation. I don't want to dissect my personality, to analyze the contradictions that make up who I am.
She's the psychologist. Let her figure it out.
I pour the eggs into the hot pan, the sizzle a welcome distraction. I watch them cook, the edges turning a lacy brown, the center still soft and creamy.
"Vito," she says, her voice soft but firm. "We need to talk."
I stiffen. I don't want to talk. I don't want to think. I don't want to feel.
I just want to be. With her.
Here.
"About?" I ask, my voice flat.
She doesn't answer right away. I can feel her hesitation, her uncertainty. She's trying to find the right words, the right way to navigate this minefield we've created.
"About... us," she finally says. "About what happened."
I guess the psychologist is back in session.
I fold the omelet in half, the cheese melting into the eggs. I slide it onto a plate and add a couple of slices of toast. Then I pour a cup of coffee and set both in front of her.
“Eat,” I say, my tone clipped. “We’ll talk after you eat.”
I’m not asking. I’m telling her. I need a minute to get my head on straight, to put a little distance between the cabana and now.
She looks down at the plate, then back up at me. There’s a flicker of defiance in her eyes. It’s gone almost immediately, replaced by a weary resignation. And something more thoughtful.
“You always answer discomfort with food?” she asks.
“Sometimes.”
“And the rest of the time?”
I meet her gaze for a second. “You already know the answer to that.”
Something shifts in her face at that. Recognition, maybe. Of me. Of herself. Of what happened when neither of us chose food, or distance, or common sense.
She reaches for the fork.
I turn back to the stove, partly because I still need breakfast too, partly because watching her eat in that white dress with her hair still damp is more intimate than it should be. More dangerous too.
The second omelet goes into the pan.
Behind me, I hear the faint scrape of her fork against the plate, the small, practical sounds of someone grounding herself in something ordinary.
Maybe food can do that. Maybe pretending this is a normal kitchen with a normal morning and a normal woman sitting at my island can buy me ten more seconds of not losing my mind.
“You don’t get to order me around and then tell me we’ll talk later like nothing happened,” she says quietly.
I let out a breath through my nose. “I’m aware.”
“Are you?”
I glance at her over my shoulder.
She’s looking at me steadily now, her blue eyes direct, fork set down again.
She’s still sitting straight, still composed, but I can see the effort in it. The carefulness. The way she’s trying to hold the line between what happened and what it means.
No, not trying.
Needing to.
“I know something happened,” I say.
Her eyebrows lift slightly. “That is an impressively evasive way to put it.”
The corner of my mouth twitches.
“I’m trying not to make this worse.”
“And what exactly would count as worse?”
That answer comes too quickly in my head.
Touching her again.
Wanting her again.
Wanting her all day and then all night and then beyond the three months until the whole damn point of bringing her here is buried under something I can’t afford.
I don’t say any of that.
Instead, I focus on my omelet, finishing it quietly. I slide it onto a plate, pour my own coffee, and take the stool across from her before answering.
“This,” I say, setting the plate down. “This is already worse.”
Her gaze doesn’t move from my face.
“Because we had sex?”
Because I lost control. Because you did too. Because I liked it, and I know you did too. Because I still want it.
“Yes,” I say.
She studies me for a long moment, then says, “That’s not the whole answer.”
No. Of course it isn’t.
I cut into the omelet even though I’m not really hungry anymore. Or maybe I am. Hard to tell what’s appetite and what’s the restless ache she’s left in me.
The silence stretches.
Finally, Teresa says, “I need to know what this is.”
My fork stops halfway to my mouth.
“What this is?”
“Yes.”
I set the fork down.
Her voice stays calm, but I can hear the tension under it now. The questions she’s been sitting on since the ocean, since the cabana, maybe since the first kiss.
“I’m not asking for a grand romantic statement,” she says. “I’m asking whether last night was just you reaching the end of your rope, or…” She shrugs one shoulder, not sure how to finish that sentence.
I look at her.
White sundress. Damp curls at her neck. Her mouth would be soft and pliant under mine.
“It didn’t mean nothing,” I say carefully.
Something in her shoulders loosens a fraction.
Not enough to count as ease. Enough to show the words aren’t entirely the wrong ones.
“Okay,” she says very quietly. “That’s at least honest.”
I lean back slightly. “I don’t know what you want me to say, Teresa.”
“I don’t know what I want you to say,” she says honestly.
The answer catches me off guard enough that I almost laugh.
Instead, I watch her pick up her coffee with both hands, more for anchoring than drinking, and I understand suddenly that she is not nearly as collected as she looks.
That makes me feel a little better, at least.
It makes me want to get up, go around the island, pull her into my lap, and tell her we can figure it out later.
Which is exactly why I stay where I am.
She says, “You’re avoiding the most important part.”
“Which is?”
“The fact that we can’t just slide back into… whatever we were doing before.”
No. We can’t.
Before, there was tension and control and boundaries I could pretend were still intact.
Before, I could tell myself this was still a problem with a structure around it.
A plan. A purpose.
Now there’s her under me, open and willing, wanting. And me standing in the surf, knowing I am already in too deep.
“I know,” I say.
Her eyes stay on mine. “Do you?”
“Yes.”
“Then say something real.”
There it is.
The psychologist and the woman, both asking the same thing.
I drag a hand over my mouth and look down at my plate, then back up at her.
“What happened last night,” I say slowly, “wasn’t part of the plan.”
“Obviously.” She picks up her fork and toys with a bit of egg. “Do you regret it?”
“I don’t think the answer is yes or no,” I say.
Her fork stills.
“That’s not an answer either.” Then she sighs. “But I understand it because I feel the same way.”