Chapter 11
Stefan
“C hrist!” I yelled at no one. I was alone.
Again.
Francesca was hardly ever here. And when she was, it was all business. Eat, watch TV, shower, and go to sleep.
The sleep part I wasn't complaining about. Being next to an almost naked Francesca was not a chore. But what was a chore was not being able to touch her. And kiss her.
Ever since I'd yelled at her the first night I arrived, she'd been cold toward me.
Yeah, she still fed me. Crappy food. But it was still something. I hoped she ate more at the hospital than she did here. The last three nights, all she'd eaten was half a bowl of cereal every night before bed.
There wasn't much cereal left in the box.
I'd checked out her cabinets the first morning I was here. After she took off for work. Someone had called her at four o'clock in the fucking morning. One of the workers went home sick, and they wanted to know if Francesca could come in early.
She'd bounded out of bed, slipped on her scrubs and escaped with a, “Good luck today.”
Yeah.
Good fuckin' luck.
It had taken me ten minutes to walk to the bathroom. And another ten minutes to walk back. At least that was what it felt like.
She didn't have many cabinets in her small as fuck kitchen. But what she did have was bare. Other than for a few packets of sugar and a rapidly diminishing supply of cereal.
Her fridge wasn't any better. All she had in there was a pitcher of water and half a jug of milk that was ready to expire any second.
It broke my fucking heart. And then it made me goddamn mad. Just like years ago, when I'd walked into Giselle's small house, taken one peek at her empty fridge, and then went out to buy her some fuckin' groceries.
And what could I do right now for Francesca?
Absolutely nothing.
I didn't even have my wallet with me. That was probably in Giselle and Carlo's barn. If someone in the emergency department hadn't ripped it off.
Fuck.
There was nothing I could do. Except eat cereal three times a day.
I sat down on the couch and turned the TV to Francesca's stupid show. She wasn't home yet. She was late.
I couldn't call her. I couldn't text. Christ.
Anything could be wrong.
With her.
Or with that fuckin' car of hers.
She'd been right when she said it was a piece of shit. That goddamn car was not roadworthy in the least. I couldn't believe some cop hadn't pulled her over and ordered a tow truck on the spot.
Fuck.
Maybe that's where she was. Stuck on the side of a road somewhere. And maybe some asshole stopped to help her. And maybe that asshole started to get aggressive.
Fuck.
If she wasn't home soon, I was going to lose it.
Her show started and I turned it up. Yesterday's cliffhanger had been kind of crazy. One of the housewives had opened the door to her bedroom and you could tell her husband was in bed. But there was also another head in there. With long red hair. And her best friend had long red hair.
Personally, I didn't see why she couldn't have just stripped and joined them in bed. But most people were too narrow-minded to even try something like that.
The theme song came on and I put my feet up on the coffee table.
Well, it wasn't so much a coffee table as it was four milk crates zip tied together with a piece of painted wood on it.
Half an hour later, it was revealed that her husband had absolutely fucked her best friend.
“Idiots,” I said as my stomach started to growl.
I looked at the time and tried not to think about Francesca being in danger. Or hungry.
I'd put a bowl out on the counter with a spoon in it and splashed a spoonful or two of milk in it. Just so she'd think I already ate.
I checked her wallet every night when she was in the shower. Not to steal anything but to see if she'd taken money out of an ATM.
There was no evidence of any kind of cash in her wallet. She might be using a card to pay for her lunch. But I severely doubted that. Not once the entire time I was in the hospital did she ever go down to the cafeteria for lunch. Or for anything at all.
Francesca always brought her food from home.
I watched her leave. And I watched her come home.
And not once did she pack a meal or bring any empty containers back from the hospital.
My hungry gut told me that woman wasn't eating. And the reason she wasn't eating was because I was here. She was fucking sacrificing her food—for me.
My stomach growled again. I grabbed my water bottle from the couch and took a long drink.
Fuck.
Where was she?
A noise at the door got my attention.
“Sorry, I'm late,” she said, carrying in a few paper bags with her on top of the bag she took to work every day.
“I stopped to grab us some food on the way home.” She gave me a quick smile and walked to the kitchen. “Give me a minute to change and I'll make supper right away.” She stuffed some food into the fridge and left the rest out on the counter.
She turned around and clasped her hands together.
“Oh, hang on. I almost forgot.” She opened her own bag and pulled out a sandwich.
“Here, I got two from the hospital. They're a few days old, but you'll be okay.
You're not immune suppressed or anything.” Then she tossed me a plastic wrapped sandwich and headed to her drawers.
She pulled clothes out and hurried to the bathroom.
She always did that. Changed in the bathroom.
The only time she hadn't was that first morning when she got called in early.
She'd pulled off her pajamas and dressed in the dark.
If I had to guess, I'd say she probably forgot I was there.
Just because she'd jerked me off, and I came all over her—and then shoved my come inside of her—apparently that didn't mean a thing.
I opened the sandwich, and my stomach growled again.
I sniffed the bread and the roast beef inside.
Admittedly, it smelled a little—off. Considering I hadn't had a decent meal in days, I decided to take a bite.
Not great. But it was food. I chewed and watched the show.
One of the husbands had surprised his wife with a trip to Italy for their anniversary.
The wife was so happy she kissed the fuck out of him.
I wondered if Francesca would do the same thing to me when I took her to Italy for the first time. I'd asked her in the hospital if she'd ever been. And she said no.
Fuck.
I was going to take her to Italy so many times it would make her fucking head spin. My house looked like a goddamn castle compared to this shithole she was living in.
Okay, so it was an actual castle. But she didn't need to know that. Not yet.
Francesca burst out of the bathroom and went straight to the kitchen.
“How's the sandwich?” she asked, washing her hands.
“Good, thanks,” I said as I chewed.
“Hang on, I forgot.” She opened the fridge and pulled out two bottles. One was mustard and one was mayo. She grabbed a plate from the cabinet and walked over to me. “Here, I like to add these. Makes it go down easier.” She gave me another—polite—smile and headed back to the kitchen.
I did what she suggested, and it actually helped to mask the weird taste.
I ate and watched the show. But mostly, I watched Francesca in the kitchen.
She was chopping something up and boiling something on the stove.
It honestly smelled pretty horrible. Not that it mattered.
If I could eat this pathetic sandwich, then I'd be able to scarf down whatever she was making.
Fifteen minutes later, she walked over with two bowls of salad. It looked all right. Mostly. The lettuce was limp and so were the cucumbers. But it smelled good. “The dressing is great. I promise, even though the veggies are a little sad.”
I took the bowl and said, “Thanks.” She set her bowl on the coffee table and walked back to the kitchen. She picked up two more bowls and brought them back with her. They were both steaming and smelled vaguely familiar. But I couldn't place it.
“Here, watch out. It's hot.”
I grabbed the bowl and what was inside made me chuckle. “I haven't had this in decades,” I said as I gazed into the bowl of orange macaroni and cut up hot dogs. I took the spoon and shoveled it into my mouth. “Christ, this brings back memories,” I laughed while I ate.
“Why?” she asked, already making a good dent in her bowl.
“Carlo used to make this for me and Nick at college. He brought in a hot plate and made us all kinds of—” I cleared my throat, “things.”
She peered at me and tilted her head in the cutest way. “Carlo cooks?”
I nodded and kept eating. “He's a great cook.” And he was. My brother had always been talented in the kitchen.
“What about you? Do you cook, too?” she asked, and it surprised me in a good way. Our conversations had been rather stilted the last few days. Thanks to me.
“I know my way around a kitchen, Chesca. When I can stand up longer than five seconds, I'll show you.”
She shrugged and looked at the TV. “You're leaving in a few days. There probably won't be time for that.”
Fuck.
Me.
Her words couldn't have hit any harder if she'd punched me directly in the gut. Yeah, she'd said I could stay a week. But I had no fucking intentions of leaving then.
Or ever.
Well, eventually I’d take her to my place. Once I was stronger and I could deal with her attitude.
I couldn't remember a time when a woman out and out defied me like she had. Thinking about other men's eyes on her gorgeous curves when she walked out of the house in just her thin pajamas was still driving me up the wall. And there was fuck all I could do about it.
“Why do you hate him so much?” she said, scooping another large spoonful of macaroni and hot dogs into her mouth.
“Hate who?” I asked, confused at the sudden topic change.
“Your brother,” she said, chewing.
My guts clenched, and I swallowed. “He took something that was mine,” I answered back, not elaborating about that. Because that was definitely not something Francesca ever needed to know about.