Chapter 8
Francesca
I played mindlessly with the stained wooden ice pop stick.
To tell you the truth—I would love to have another one.
But that would mean getting up. And I really didn't want to do that.
Laziness had taken over. That—and the fact I didn't want to stop staring out at the sea.
Watching the waves had an oddly hypnotic effect on me.
I heard Stefan's footsteps behind me, and I smiled. Having him look after me had not been terrible.
No.
Even though the circumstances were awful, it had been wonderful to have him around, caring for me. That was definitely something I'd never had in my life. I was always the one who looked after everyone else. It was nice to have the tables turned for once.
Stefan set down a beautiful wooden tray on the table. There was one large bowl of soup and a basket of rolls. The butter was on the side.
“What kind of soup is that?” There was something oddly familiar about it that I couldn't place.
“Pastina en brodo,” Carlo said with a smexy as heck accent that gave me tingles everywhere.
I let out a small laugh. “Oh, my granny used to make this for me when I was sick.” I had a sudden flashback to being seven or eight years old—just before she died. I'd been home from school with a wicked cold. That was the last time she'd made it for me.
Stefan's head snapped to me. “Was she Italian?”
I nodded and reached for a bun. “Yeah. Her grandparents left here when they were first married.”
He swiped the bun out of my hand and put it back into the basket. “And your grandfather?”
I frowned at him. “He was Italian, too. At least, I think so. He took off after he knocked my grandmother up. Never met the guy.” Quickly, I nabbed the bun back. What was he trying to prove by bringing a basket of warm buns to tempt me with?
“Francesca.” Stefan seized the bun from me.
Again.
“Do you ever listen?”
I groaned, “Why can't I have a bun? Are you trying to tease me?”
He smirked and sat down. Then he picked up the bowl of soup. “You'll know when I'm teasing you. Trust me. For now,” he scooped up a spoonful of soup and blew on it, “try the soup. Then we'll see how you feel.”
I closed my eyes and sighed. This man was ridiculous. “I'm fine.” I opened my eyes and glared at him. “And I can feed myself.” I reached for the spoon that I knew he wouldn't give me. But still, I tried.
As expected, he moved it away. “I need this.” His voice was low and serious. It matched the way he was looking at me. “And you'll give it to me. Do you understand?”
For some reason—I did.
Kind of.
But I still wanted to be stubborn for some reason. “No, I don't understand.” But I opened for him anyway, and he slid in the first taste. “Mm,” I said as the delicious, combined flavors hit my tongue. Carrots, onions, celery. And chicken. The tiny stars floated around just for fun.
“Good?” he asked and filled the spoon again.
I nodded and swallowed. “Very. A little heavy on the garlic. But it's great.”
I opened for more when he offered. Then he ate some as well.
“Eve said to add extra because of how sick you were.”
My heart squeezed. “You talked to Eve?” I asked, eyeing the buns.
“And Giselle. They've been calling non-stop for updates on you. They're both feeling quite guilty over getting you ill for your honeymoon.”
I wanted to correct him and say, “You mean fake honeymoon,” but I didn't. Something told me Stefan would have a fit if I did.
“They didn't do it on purpose,” I stated the obvious. “Kids are germy. It's not their fault.”
Stefan continued feeding me. “They still feel bad. I have instructions to have you call them when you're feeling better.” I nodded and kept eating.
A knock echoed through the kitchen and out here. Stefan set the spoon inside the bowl and stood. “I'll be right back.” Then he quickly added, “Do not eat anything while I'm gone.” He pointed his finger at me.
I nodded—as if I was actually going to listen.
As soon as he was out of sight, I pulled the bowl in front of me and picked up the spoon. I shoved in a few more spoonfuls before I stole a bun.
It was still warm.
I didn't take the time to cut it open. Instead, I dug my fingernails into it and ripped it open like an animal.
Then I slathered butter all over the inside.
It looked wonderful. The melting butter made my mouth water.
I'd nearly eaten the whole thing when I heard Stefan say, “She's feeling markedly better. As you can see.” His tone was more than a little sarcastic.
I smiled up at Stefan and the nurse as they looked down at me.
I wiped my mouth guiltily and grinned. “It’s a miracle. I'm all better,” I said over a mouthful of buttery bun.
The nurse tried not to laugh. “That's good. I'm just here to check your vitals. You do look much better, Mrs. Sovrano.”
She pulled out everything she needed to take my blood pressure and temperature. She asked me a few very biological questions and then rubbed her finger over my hand. “Did you take this out by yourself?”
Stefan lurked behind me. I could feel him there even though I couldn't see him. “Yeah, I took it out before I showered.”
She raised her eyebrows and smiled. “You did a nice job.” She let me go and packed up her stuff. “If you have any concerns, just give Dr. Vitale a call. I'm sure she'll want to follow up with you in a few days.”
We said our goodbyes, and Stefan showed her out. As soon as they were out of sight—I grabbed another roll. This time, I buttered it and dipped it in the soup.
“Oh, my gosh,” I mumbled and redipped. It was so, so, so good. The only thing that would make this better would be if I also had crackers to crush up in the soup.
It didn't take me long to get to the bottom of the bowl. I picked it up and brought it to my mouth. While I tipped it and drank the final drops, I heard a low, “You enjoyed the soup, I see.”
Caught.
I licked my lips and set the bowl down with a smile. “It's great. You're a good cook.”
Stefan took the bowl. “Do you want more?”
I nodded up at him. “Yes, please.”
His eyes lingered on my lips for a moment. “Anything else?”
I shrugged and answered, “Is there any fruit left?”
He nodded and walked back into the kitchen.
A minute or two went by, and I grew restless, knowing he was in the kitchen by himself. So, I pushed my chair back and joined him.
Stefan's eyes hit me instantly. “Francesca, go sit down and rest. I'll bring everything out when I'm done.”
Ignoring him completely—I went straight for the fridge. I pulled out a bottle of water and a bottle of orange juice.
Oh, the wine he'd opened when we first arrived was in there. That gave me an idea.
I grabbed that as well and put it all on the counter. Then I went back into the fridge. “Do you have any soft drinks?” I asked, looking around the largest refrigerator I'd seen in my life. It was goofy to have something this big for one person.
Stefan sighed. “Bottom pullouts.”
Immediately, I saw what he meant. Skinny pull-out drawers hid near the bottom. When I slid them out, I found what I needed.
It didn't take me long to find a nice, big glass. After that, I set about making my own cocktail. “What are you doing?” Stefan asked from the long island behind me.
I smiled to myself and answered, “Making my own special kind of mimosa. Do you want one?”
He let out a sound that told me no, he didn't.
He walked up behind me. “Do you need anything else for your,” his finger swirled around in the air above my drink, “concoction?”
I cracked open the soft drink and poured it in. “Um.” I thought about it for a second. “Oh, do you have pineapple juice?” I swiveled my head around slightly. It wouldn't take much for him to lean down and kiss me. My lower belly liked that idea. A lot.
“Christ,” he muttered, but left me and walked to the fridge. In no time, he was back with a bottle of pineapple juice. He opened it, and I took it eagerly. This was going to taste so good. After I poured a bit in, I set it down and picked up the wine bottle.
“What are you doing with this?” Stefan tugged it out of my hands.
“Hey, give it back,” I whined and turned around. There wasn't much room to move. Stefan's body was right next to mine.
“Francesca.” Stefan stared at me with a frown on his face. “Are you out of your mind? You can't have wine. You're still recovering.”
I leaned back against the counter. “I'm only putting in a bit for taste. Sheesh. Haven't you heard of a mimosa before?” I rolled my eyes and turned back around. “Come on. Just a bit.” I moved the tall glass over, hoping he'd do what I asked.
“And what would the nurse say if she saw this?” Stefan asked as he began pouring the tiniest little bit into the glass.
I slipped my arm over his and tipped the bottom of the bottle with my finger. That caused a much better pour.
“Francesca,” Stefan rumbled behind me.
I just giggled. “She'd probably ask me to make her one, too.”
Once the glass was full, he sighed and set the bottle on the counter. “Do you always get what you want?”
That made me laugh right the heck out loud.
Mostly because I'd never heard anything so freaking hilarious in my life.
I picked up the mimosa and stuck my finger in to stir it up a bit.
“Trust me, Stefan,” I kept laughing, “I never get what I want. Like, ever.” I brought my finger to my mouth—but Stefan's hand clamped around my wrist. He directed that finger to—
His own mouth. Once his lips surrounded my finger and he sucked it in—everything in my lower belly clenched in a delicious manner. It actually shocked me how close I felt to orgasming. But that was goofy. Nobody could come just from having their finger sucked. Right?
I guess I wouldn't find out because Stefan popped it out of his mouth. “You are not drinking that. It's putrid.”
I laughed and picked up my drink. The first sip tasted just fine. No, it tasted great.
Delightfully refreshing. “Mm, it's perfect.” I took a long gulp this time. “Yum. It just needs ice.”