“Wolfe, you know I’m right.”
He took a slow breath then released a growl. A literal growl.
“Wolfe—”
“Mark my words, Francesca.” He stepped toward me, closing the distance between us for everyone to see. “Drag your feet too long, and I will take matters into my own hands?—”
“I’m not dragging my feet,” I snapped. “You’re the one being impatient.”
“I killed every last one of those motherfuckers—not for him,but for you.I’ve earned you, and I want to claim what’s mine.” He made a fist then slammed it into his chest, hard enough to make a thump.
I loved how passionate he was, but he was like a wild horse that couldn’t be saddled when he was like this. “Well, it’ll need to wait.”
“How long?” he demanded.
I didn’t want to say, knowing he wouldn’t like the answer and he might flip.
“How long, Francesca?”
I took a slow breath in preparation for his wrath. “A couple weeks…maybe a month.”
“Are you fucking kidding me?—”
“Let’s finish this conversation at home.” Before he could flip out on me further and start yelling so everyone would hear our business, I walked off and headed to one of the other buildings that held some of our filing cabinets.
I didn’t hear him behind me, so I knew he didn’t pursue me.
But I knew I would get an earful later.
I was making dinner in the kitchen when I heard the front door open and close. When he was finished at the winery, he went to his home to do his daily workout and shower before he headed over. It was an unspoken routine we’d silently agreed to. Despite the beautiful home in his possession, we continued to spend our time here, even though we were far more likely to get caught with his Range Rover parked outside.
But knowing Wolfe, that was exactly what he wanted.
I heard his footsteps behind me, but they weren’t followed by an affectionate greeting. His hands didn’t grab my ass either, so that wasn’t a good sign.
I turned around to face him.
He stared me down just the way he had outside my father’s house—like he was still mad as hell.
“Dinner’s almost ready.”
He didn’t blink. Didn’t react. A lifeless stone statue in my kitchen.
I turned back to the pan and continued to work.
He started to move behind me, grabbing plates and utensils and setting the table. I heard him uncork a bottle of wine and fill the glasses. His angry silence was more deafening than his loud voice.
I carried the dishes to the center of the table and sat across from him.
He sat there and stared.
I served myself because he always waited for me to go first.
Then he reached for the dish and scooped the breaded chicken onto his plate before dumping a pile of pasta beside it. “Thank you for dinner.” His tone was clipped, like he had to force himself to say the words because he was too polite to be an asshole.
“You’re welcome.”
We ate in heavy silence while he continued to shoot angry stares at me across the table.
