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He breathes in slowly, his jaw working, but he says nothing. There’s no answer he can give me—and that’s an answer in and of itself.
“How did you know where I lived? I’ve never told you.”
Lorenzo gives me a narrow look. “Mila. My brother is the Campano family don. You think I didn’t know all the relevant information about you an hour after you told me your name?”
“I don’t think that makes me feel better.” My knees feel weak, wondering what else he knows. About my parents’ accident, surely—although it’s not as if I would have kept it a secret if he’d asked. It’s just that I know so little about him, and it’s clear that he knows so much more about me than I realized.
“Can I come in?” Lorenzo looks over my shoulder again, and my mind briefly goes blank. I try to imagine him in my small apartment, watching as I make grocery-store spaghetti for my brother and me. The image is laughable.
“I—” I start to say he should leave, that we can talk about all of this later—but then I feel a hand tug at the side of my tank top, and I look down to see Niki next to me.
I hadn’t even heard him walk up; I’d been so embroiled in my feelings about the conversation Lorenzo and I were having. Distracted. He tugs at my shirt again, and then gestures at Lorenzo.
I don’t look up at Lorenzo. I don’t want to see his face just now—if he looks appalled by Niki’s lack of speech, I’ll hate him forever. I won’t be able to stand the sight of him even enough to work for him, and that will open up a whole other nest of problems.
“He’s just leaving,” I reassure Niki, but to my surprise, Niki shakes his head violently. “You want him to stay?”
Niki nods, smiling, and then I do dare a look up at Lorenzo.
He’s smiling, too—a softer expression on his face than I’ve ever seen—or could ever even have imagined seeing. “Is something happening that I should stay for?” he asks, a tinge of amusement in his voice, and my cheeks flush.
“I’m making dinner. But it’s nothing fancy. Just spaghetti from a jar.” I look down at Niki. “I don’t think he can stay.”
I don’t need to hear Niki speak to get his opinion on that. The mulish look on his face tells me everything I might need to know.
Lorenzo chuckles. “I think I’m invited for dinner, Mila.”
I let out a sharp breath, taking a step back, and Lorenzo walks inside. He closes the door behind him, and I hastily lock it, glancing down at Niki. “Why don’t you go back to watching cartoons while I cook?” I ask gently, looking at the TV, where the next episode has started, and the theme is ringing merrily through the living room. “Mr. Campano is going to help me.”
“Oh, am I?” There’s clearly humor in Lorenzo’s voice now, and I shoot him an irritated look as I usher Niki back to the couch. He’s clearly enjoying this far too much.
Once Niki is settled, I go back to the kitchen. I can feel Lorenzo behind me, and I turn, trying not to flinch. His presence feels too big for this place, too commanding. His expensive suit sticks out, his Italian leather shoes, his perfect haircut, and classically handsome features. He looks all wrong here, and I take a slow breath, trying not to imagine what it might take to make him look right. Trying not to picture him in jeans and a t-shirt or joggers, standing with me at the counter while I make dinner.
“Can I help?” Lorenzo’s gaze slides over the assortment of ingredients on the counter, and I feel my cheeks burn hot. I feel like a peasant in a hovel, my meager dinner on display for someone who has probably never cooked for himself, who has never eaten anything less than a gourmet meal, who has definitely never been inside a grocery store or eaten spaghetti sauce from a jar—much less the store brand that only costs a dollar.
I want to disappear. I very much wish I hadn’t caved, and invited him in.
“I doubt you know how to cook. You’d probably chop a finger off.” I bite my lip, turning back to the counter, and Lorenzo moves smoothly past me, leaning against the other side. The wine bottle is next to him, far too close for comfort if I wanted to pour myself a glass. I now very much feel like I need one.
“I’ve cooked for myself,” he says mildly. “From time to time, although I usually get takeout. It’s easier, and I can be a bit lazy when I get home.”
“You? Lazy?” I look at him, startled enough that the words slip out without my meaning for them to. It’s hard to picture him as lazy—this man with his muscled body and perfectly poised air and the aura of a businessman all around him. “I doubt that.”
“We all have our vices at home.” His voice is smooth and silky, and the word vice conjures up all sorts of things I don’t want to think about right now. My neck heats, and I reach for the knife.
“Well, this kitchen isn’t big enough for two people to cook, anyway.” I swallow hard, crushing a clove of garlic and starting to chop it.
“Do you want a glass of wine?” Lorenzo looks at the uncorked bottle and the empty glass. “I think I interrupted you.”
“You did. But you were just answering my text.”
“Tell me about that.” He pours the wine, then reaches up and starts opening cabinets without asking until he finds his own glass, and pours some for himself. It’s somehow impossibly arrogant and devastatingly sexy all at once—the self-assured confidence with which he makes himself at home—and I grope for the glass as he slides it towards me, taking a gulp of the wine.
“I got off the bus and saw a cop car.” I keep my voice very low, quiet enough that there’s no way Niki will hear what we’re talking about over the sounds of his cartoons. “I couldn’t tell if it was the same cop, and I thought I might be overreacting. But then it started to follow me. So I kept going past my apartment, because I figured if it was him, he’d be trying to determine where I lived.”
“Most likely just trying to rattle you.” Lorenzo takes a sip of his wine, and I wait for him to wince—the bottle cost all of twelve dollars. I can’t imagine it tastes like anything other than vinegar to him. But he doesn’t give any sign that he dislikes it, if he does. “I’m sure he already knows where you live—easy enough information for a cop to find out. I’m not trying to scare you,” he adds, seeing the expression on my face. “What you did was smart, in the circumstances.”
“He kept going, and I walked a little further, and then I turned back. And texted you once I got inside.” I finish chopping the garlic, going to the stove to put oil in a pan, all of my movements feeling methodical and slightly numb. He knows where I live.
