Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
NICO
“Aren’t you supposed to be resting?”
Sofia jolts, dropping the pan onto the burner with a clatter. She spins around, clapping her hand to her chest. “Cripes,” she says. “You scared the crap out of me. I thought you were still working.”
Like I’ve taken to doing whenever I see her, I let my gaze skim up and down her body, cataloging everything—the color of the bruises on her face, if her eyes are focused or not, how dark the circles beneath them are, if her mouth is pinched with pain or more relaxed.
And if I happen to notice that her eyes are more green than gold in the evening? Or that her stretchy pants make her ass look amazing? Well, those are just observations. They don’t actually mean anything.
“What are you doing?” I ask. “Why aren’t you in the bedroom, resting?”
Sofia adjusts her sling. Then she makes a little face at it. “This thing makes cooking really hard. I thought about taking it off—”
“The doctor said at least a week. I heard him.”
“He said I could take it off sometimes.”
“To shower. Or when you’re getting changed.”
Shit. Don’t think about Sofia getting changed. Don’t think about her wriggling out of those leggings and bending over to take them off, the perfect swell of her ass on full display.
Don’t think about her in only a pair of panties and a bra, her cute little outie belly button—
Fuck.
Do not think about Sofia’s body, full-stop.
My dick twitches in denial, its movement saying, I’ll think about Sofia’s body whenever I want. Whatever happened between you two has nothing to do with me.
I shove my hands in my pockets and quickly move behind the kitchen island, hiding everything below my waist. Annoyed by my body’s response, my voice is rough as I say, “Anyway. You didn’t answer my question. What are you doing?”
Which is a pretty dumb question, I realize. She’s standing by the stove, stirring some sort of meat and vegetable mixture in a pan. There are tortilla shells stacked on a plate on the counter. What do I think she’s doing? Knitting a scarf? Playing piano?
“I’m cooking,” she says in a tone that makes it clear she thinks it’s a dumb question, too. “Beef fajitas. There weren’t a lot of vegetables to choose from, so I had to stick with peppers and onions. But I think it’ll turn out okay.”
“You’re not supposed to be cooking.”
Sofia flinches. Her gaze falls to the pan. “Sorry. I didn’t know.”
Shit.
Being around Sofia has me so mixed up, I’m saying things I don’t mean. Or they’re coming out the wrong way, like when I told her about the security cameras inside the condo and she thought I was implying she might steal from me.
“That’s not what I meant,” I start. “I—”
“I’ll just finish up quickly,” she interrupts. “Unless you want me to stop now? I’ll have to let it cool before I throw everything away, but I guess I could run cold water on it.”
I grip the edge of the counter. My knuckles go white. “Sofia—”
Her gaze jumps to mine before skittering away. “I thought you would still be in the office,” she adds. “Since you said you usually work until six or seven. So I thought I could get the food made and be out of your way by then.”
I do usually work until at least then. But working from home, like I’ve been the last two days, it’s been harder to focus. I keep getting up to check on Sofia, making sure she’s not in pain, that she’s not feeling ill, that she’s not crying…
Shit. When I knocked her to the ground yesterday and she burst into tears, I nearly had a heart attack. I was convinced I’d really hurt her. And watching Sofia cry like that…
Yes, I’m still bitter about what happened in high school. But that doesn’t mean I like seeing her cry. And knowing I’m the one who caused it? That’s even worse.
“I’m not mad that you’re cooking,” I reply. “I told you to make yourself comfortable here.”
“I’m sorry I used the food. I didn’t think it would be a good idea to order delivery using my own credit card.”
“It wouldn’t be. And it’s not that. You can cook. But not now. It’s only been three days, Sofia. You have a concussion. A dislocated—”
“Partially dislocated.”
I bite the inside of my cheek to stifle a smile. I forgot how stubborn Sofia can be. “Fine. Partially dislocated. But still. You should be resting.”
“I was getting claustrophobic in there,” she retorts. “I just—” She stops. Her cheeks go pink. “Sorry. That sounds ungrateful. I didn’t mean it that way. But I was researching concussions and it’s good to get some gentle activity. So I thought I’d make a quick dinner.”
Pausing, Sofia tilts her head towards the roll of aluminum foil at the end of the kitchen island. “I was going to leave you some. In case you wanted something different from the pre-made meals. Not that those aren’t good. But I thought it would be rude to cook for myself and not for you.”
My heart does that weird twisting thing again.
It feels almost like… longing.
I remember when Sofia used to cook for me.
Not at my parents’ place; they insisted cooking was only for the help.
But when we’d go to Sofia’s place, she always cooked.
Nothing fancy—just pasta or grilled chicken or some sort of casserole—but I loved it, just the same.
Sitting at her worn dining room table, eating food she’d made for me…
it meant a heck of a lot more than anything our housekeeper slash chef ever prepared.
Shit, this is hard.
I thought it might get easier the more days that passed. But it hasn’t. And with no leads on the identities of the attackers in the alley or at the hospital, I’m not sure how much longer Sofia will need to stay here.
I’ve been on it, of course—pulling up surveillance footage from the businesses near the alley, scouring the security at the hospital, but with the men wearing full-face masks, it’s almost impossible to identify them.
That doesn’t mean I’m not still trying, and I’m still looking into Sofia’s background.
But without Sofia’s memory of that night or the days prior, we’re at a disadvantage.
Which means she could be here for days or even weeks more. Yes, I could send her back to Hoboken and station some guards at her apartment, like Knight suggested. But in my gut, it feels wrong. My gut tells me to keep her here.
After coming up with ten different responses and immediately rejecting them, I finally settle on, “You don’t have to cook for me. But if you’ve already started—”
“I know I don’t have to.” Sofia gives the pan a swift shake, sending whorls of steam rising from it.
She peers at the contents with a critical eye, then turns the burner off and sets the pan to the side.
As she reaches up to the pot rack hanging above the island—a pot rack I haven’t touched since I moved in three years ago, I realize—her shirt rises up, exposing a sliver of bare skin.
My dick twitches again.
Stop it, I order silently. It’s her stomach. Nothing to get excited about.
In an attempt to distract myself from that sliver of pale skin, I ask, “Do you need any help? Toppings? Silverware? Anything?”
Sofia puts a fresh pan on the burner and drizzles a bit of oil into it.
“I didn’t see sour cream in the fridge, or I would have made avocado crema.
But if you think there’s something you might want…
” She angles her chin at a small pile of sliced limes sitting on a cutting board by the sink.
“I thought those might help add some flavor.”
“Do you want sour cream? Salsa? I can place a delivery order.”
She tosses a tortilla shell into the sizzling pan. “It’s your place, Nico. Your fridge. What I want has nothing to do with it.”
“It matters,” I reply. “You’re living here—”
“As an unwanted guest,” she shoots back.
“That’s not true.”
Her brows arch up. “Really? You’re glad I’m here?”
Glad? I’m not sure that’s the right word. But unwanted? That’s not right, either.
“You’re not unwanted, Sofia.” I slide onto a stool so I’m not towering over her. “I want you here. Okay?”
An unreadable emotion darkens her gaze. “You don’t have to lie, Nico.”
“I’m not.”
But she did.
It’s the massive elephant in the room we’ve been avoiding for the last few days. And like I told Knight, I know we need to talk about it. I’ve just been waiting for the right time.
But is this it?
Part of me wants to keep delaying it. To give Sofia more time to recover. To let this tentative truce we’ve reached continue. To eat dinner together and, just for a few minutes, pretend everything is normal.
Everything’s not normal, though, is it?
And despite my body’s response to Sofia, I can’t forget what she did. Understand? Yes. But forget how much it hurt when I discovered she lied to me? I can’t.
While I spin the possible conversation in my head, Sofia finishes cooking the tortillas and arranges them on a plate. Then she makes up two tiny fajitas and squeezes a lime wedge over them. “I’ll come back to clean up after you’re done.”
“What do you mean?” I ask.
Sofia takes her plate and starts heading out of the kitchen. “Once you’re done eating,” she clarifies. “I’ll come back in twenty minutes or so to do the dishes.”
“Where are you going?”
She glances at her plate. “Into the bedroom. To eat.”
“No.” It’s immediate. Instinctive. “You don’t need to hide in the bedroom to eat. And if you cooked, I should be the one cleaning up.”
“Nico.” A sad expression moves across her face. “I think it would be better if I eat in the bedroom. And I’ll clean up later.”
The elephant in the room grows larger until there’s barely room for anything else.
My heart makes an uneven thump.
I haven’t felt this kind of anxiety since… Shit. I can’t remember.
“Nico?” Sofia frowns. “I’m not trying to make things weirder than they already are. It’s just—”
“Do you think we should talk about it?”
“Now?”