Chapter 7
Samantha
I’m just about to leave Mac so he can rest when voices drift down the hall. A feminine laugh, a low male chuckle. Then Sandro and Lennon step into the room, their fingers intertwined. I knew they were returning from their honeymoon today, I just wasn’t sure what time they’d get in.
Lennon is beaming, her green eyes—which are the exact shade as Killian’s—are glowing, her smile wide as she gives me a little finger wave and walks toward her father. “Hey, Sam. Did he behave himself?” She leans over to press a kiss to his forehead.
They’d grown close after he almost died. Watching it happen had me fantasizing about my own absentee father suddenly popping up in my life. But the reality was, mine was probably in a shallow grave somewhere with a bullet in his head. Heavy gamblers don’t tend to have a long lifespan.
“Now what would be the fun in that?” Mac teases her. The way he’s looking at her stabs me with a pang of jealousy.
“Well, hello, Peaches.” Lennon smiles as her kitten unfurls itself from the bottom of the bed and stretches.
She picks it up and snuggles it under her chin as it begins to purr.
“You’ve grown so much in two weeks. What about you?
Have you behaved yourself?” She rubs her nose against the kitten’s head.
“Absolutely not,” Mac chimes in. “Little demon, that one. Likes to hide under the bed and attack my feet when I get up.”
We all chuckle at the image of the orange piece of fluff terrorizing a mob boss.
Sandro is standing just inside the door, quietly watching his wife with a soft expression. He’s in casual travel clothes and his hair is mussed. An aura of happiness surrounds him. Lennon has definitely softened his razor-sharp edges.
“How was Italy?” I ask. I’ve always wanted to go there. I should consider it for a place to hide.
“Amazing.” Lennon breathes, her hand fluttering over her heart as she sets the kitten back down on the bed. “Beautiful and delicious. I got to meet Nona Pina, Sandro’s grandmother and his aunt and all his cousins.”
“They loved her, of course,” Sandro says lazily.
“Indeed.” Mac grins at the daughter he’d only discovered he had a few months ago. “You must travel to Ireland soon, love, meet our side of the family. Your brothers attended the International School of Dublin growin’ up, you know.”
I tilt my head. That explains why they have Irish accents. I thought it was just from being raised by Mac.
“When you fully recover, we can make a family trip of it.” Sandro walks over and slips a protective arm around Lennon’s waist. “How’s the healing coming along?”
Mac shrugs. “Slower than I like. But Doc’s been taking good care of me. I’m sure I’ll be out of your hair soon.”
“Oh, Mac,” Lennon sighs, “you’re not in our hair.”
“You’re not,” Sandro echoes. “Stay as long as you want to. There’s plenty of room here. And speaking of,” Sandro flattens his hand on Lennon’s lower belly. “Dr. Sam, Lennon will need a pregnancy test as soon as possible.”
Lennon chokes, a blush blooming on her cheeks. She smacks his arm. “Stop it. I’m not pregnant.”
He kisses her temple. “If not, you will be soon enough.”
She throws me an apologetic look and changes the subject.
“Sam, will you stay for dinner tonight? Nonna Pina taught me how to make chicken cacciatore, and we brought back some delicious Italian wine. I want to make dinner and catch up with everyone.” She bites her lip.
“And make use of the ridiculous new kitchen.”
I blink in surprise at her invite, but a warmth spreads through my body. “Only if you let me help.”
“Deal,” she says, checking her watch. “Meet me in the kitchen at four o’clock.”
“We’re not done with the discussion on the kitchen help.” Sandro moves his hands to rest on her shoulders. “All right then, I need to go find my brother and get looped back in.” He presses another kiss to the top of her head then whispers something in her ear.
I swoon a little. It’s nice to see how Lennon has changed Sandro, tamed his darkness. I know he would do anything for her, and envy weights down my heart. That’s not in the cards for me. I can’t let anyone get close. Not if I want to keep my daughter safe.
“Make sure you tell Rocco dinner will be at six. He and Gunnar are invited.” Lennon calls over her shoulder as she squeezes Mac’s hand. “I’m going to go unpack, but I’ll see you at dinner.”
He raises her hand and presses a kiss to it. “You look so much like your mam with that sparkle in your eye.”
Lennon smiles softly, nods. She catches my eye. “See you at four.”
The rest of the day flies by, and I find myself looking forward to spending time with Lennon.
Med school didn’t leave time for female friendships beyond Jill, the over-achieving general surgeon intern who made us all custom scrub caps for Christmas.
Or Blair Johnson, who shared the cheap, magic pick-me-up of an oatmeal and hot chocolate packet in hot water. It’s still a staple of my diet.
When I return to the house at 4 PM, Lennon has changed into a pale green silk top and white flowy pants, her auburn hair piled up on her head.
The sunlight streaming through the two-story windows is setting the whole space aglow.
I can’t tell if it’s excitement or nerves she’s feeling as she squeaks out a “hi”.
She grins, her eyes sweeping over my red midi dress with tiny white flowers. Then she hands me an apron. “You look so pretty, and I may have overestimated my ability to pull this off so better protect yourself.”
I blow out a puff of laughter and pull the apron over my dress. “We’ve got this. But I know a great Italian place that delivers just in case.”
“Thank God,” she breathes out with a chuckle.
Then she clasps her hands together and motions to all the ingredients strewn over the counter.
Her large diamond and emerald ring catches the light, along with her tiny emerald nose piercing as she shakes her head and groans, completely overwhelmed. “Okay. I took notes, so there’s that.”
As she pulls up the notes on her phone, I secure my hair in a ponytail and take in the kitchen.
Besides the white quartz countertops, the space features white and glass cabinets, a tray ceiling, a coffee station, a butler’s pantry, two large islands, and an outdoor terrace overlooking the water.
I’d never learned to cook, but if I had a kitchen like this, I would damn sure try.
Lennon rummages through the endless cupboards until she finds a cast iron skillet, then places it on the gas stove. “Okay, I’ll sear the chicken thighs, if you want to get started on the cucumber salad. I’m texting you the recipe.”
I pull out my phone. “Got it.”
She pops open a bottle of white wine and pours two glasses. Then winces as we clink out a toast. “Here’s to making something edible.” After we take a sip, she squeezes the bridge of her nose. “Why did I invite so many people?”
I pick up the bottle of olive oil and hold it out to her. “Because the important thing is family. Spending time with them.” I hear the hitch in my voice at the word “family”. I’d give anything to have Rona here with me.
“And not giving them food poisoning,” she groans, accepting the bottle.
I shove my own sadness away and concentrate on helping Lennon. “Not going to happen. When I’m prepping for surgery, I just close my eyes and imagine everything going perfectly. Try it.”
She takes another mouthful of wine and pulls back her shoulders, closing her eyes a swallowing. After a few moments she opens them, her eyes sparkling in the sunlight. A carbon copy of Killian’s.
Damn it. Stop noticing that.
She nods with a grin. “Okay, let’s do this.”
We get to work, chopping, sautéing, deglazing… and drinking our wine. Pretty soon the kitchen is filled with mouth-watering scents of simmering onion, basil, parsley, roasting chicken and the sound of our laughter and conversation.
“So, you’re an actual surgeon,” she says, as she whisks something in a bowl. “Impressive. How did you get roped into working for Sandro instead of at a hospital?”
My spine stiffens. The knife freezes in my hand.
I can feel Lennon’s attention. She notices my reaction…
of course, she does. Her job is to recognize and heal trauma.
I force myself to continue chopping the onion.
“Just lucky I guess.” The joke falls flat.
Fortunately, she doesn’t push the subject and lets me change it.
“I’ve always wanted to go to Italy. Which place was your favorite? ”
She spends the next half hour telling me stories of their trip, describing the countryside, the people, the food, until I’m ready to Google what kind of visa I could get to move there.
By the time she pulls the chicken out of the oven, I have a slight buzz from the wine and the camaraderie.
It’s the closest to happiness I’ve felt in years.
I pause and let myself really feel it, as it’ll be fleeting, and I need these moments as an anchor in the darkness.
Lennon’s hands are still encased in white oven mitts when I notice she’s staring at me, her eyes soft with empathy, her cheeks flushed. She removes one and then reaches over and squeezes my forearm. “I’m here if you ever need to talk, Sam. Anytime.” Then she turns her attention back to the chicken.
That simple sentence has tears welling up in my eyes. It’s been so long since someone offered to listen. To see me. I blink back the tears. “Thank you,” I whisper, then straighten my shoulders and clear my throat. “I’ll start setting the table, how many guests will there be?”
She counts on her fingers. “Seven.” She glances around the cabinets and bites her lip. “Sandro had the kitchen stocked, but I have no idea where anything is, so you’ll have to do some exploring.”