“You’re thinking too loud.”
His voice comes out rough with sleep. Lower than usual. It vibrates against my spine and settles somewhere behind my navel.
“Sorry.”
“No, you’re not.”
I smile into the pillow. “No.I’m not.”
He pulls me closer, chest to my back, and presses his mouth to the curve of my neck. Not a kiss. Just contact. Justmine.
“What time is it?”
“Early. Nonna Rosa’s already started.”
“Mm.” His thumb traces a lazy circle on my hip. “She’ll put you to work if you go down there.”
“Maybe I want to be put to work.”
He goes still behind me. Just for a beat. Then his arm tightens, and he rolls me onto my back so he can look at me.
Morning light cuts across the bed. It catches in his hair, turns his eyes from dark to a shade near amber.
He’s beautiful like this. Unguarded.
“You want to help with dinner.” Not a question. He’s reading me the way he always does, finding the meaning underneath the words.
“I need to be part of it.” I reach up, trace the line of his jaw with my fingertips. “Not watching from the outside. Part of it.”
His jaw relaxes, but his eyes sharpen. Focus on me like I’m the only clear thing in the room.
“You are part of it.” His voice is quiet. Certain. “You’ve been part of it since you walked through my door.”
I swallow past the tightness in my throat.
“Then let me prove it.”
He watches me. Then he leans down, presses his forehead to mine, breathes me in.
“Tonight,” he says against my lips. “After dinner.”
“After dinner.”
Two words. A promise. A plan.
He kisses me once, lingering, then pulls back. The coldness is seeping into his expression. The Don returning. But his hand finds mine on the pillow, and he squeezes once before letting go.
“Go help Nonna Rosa. I have calls to make.”
I watch him rise from the bed, all lean muscle and controlled grace, and my fingers curl into the sheets where his warmth still lingers.
Tonight,I remind myself. Just get through today.
The kitchen is chaotic in the best possible way.
Nonna Rosa stands at the center of it like a general commanding her troops. She’s small, silver-haired, and terrifying when she wants to be. Right now she’s wielding a wooden spoon like a weapon, barking orders in a mix of English and Cajun French that Maria scrambles to follow.
“No, no,cher,the garlic goes in first. You want it to sing before you add the tomatoes. La, like that. Good girl.”
