Page 66 of Hidden Desires

“My dad really hates you,” she says, but there’s a smile tucked in there.

I grin. “It’ll pass. He’s hated me before.”

She laughs, wet and ragged. “Really?”

I shrug. “I’ve known Gerald for more than twenty years. We’ve both given each other reason to hate each other multiple times over that time period, and now is another one of those instances. But this too will pass, sweetheart, because you’re impossible not to love.”

Eliza presses her face to my chest, and I feel the shake of her laughter, the way her arms wrap around my ribs.

“You’re so realistic,” she says, but she’s smiling.

I hold her close, feeling the last of the old world burn away, making room for the new.

“It’s the soldier in me, sweetheart. He’s always there.”

“And I love him,” Eliza whispers, looking up at me so innocent and pure that I can’t help but kiss that pouty mouth. “I adore that man.”

My heart swoops and I want to ravish the young woman, but Eliza’s stomach growls and I know I have to feed her. Sure enough, when we head into the kitchen, the onions are still on the cutting board, the meat defrosting in the sink, but none of that really matters.

Right now, it’s just me and this gorgeous girl, and the absolute certainty that together, we can survive anything.

15

CHAPTER 15 – TRIPLE TEAMED AND A SPECIAL MEATBALL

Eliza

My car keys hit the hall table with a jingle, and that’s when I let my shoulders slump. All energy drains from my body, and I feel totally limp. If the house were empty, I’d collapse right here. But I know Jack’s home—the scent of garlic and browning meat drifting down the hall is an immediate, gut-level comfort, that I just exhale in shuddery, pathetic bursts.

Today was a masterclass in workplace discomfort. I’ve survived a hundred shit days at the law firm, but today was an Olympic event: every woman in admin whispering at the coffee machine, every lawyer suddenly over-polite, every intern shooting me these sideways, predatory looks. The rumor mill must’ve been running on rocket fuel because even the paralegals I’d never spoken to all wore the same look: “She’s the one. The girl who’s living with that older guy. And I mean old, old.” I wanted to be invisible; instead, it felt like I was the opening act in a very public shame game. I wonder if the partner with the bad breath and wandering hands even remembers grabbing my ass at the holiday party, or if the fact I’m sleeping with an “older man” (gasp!) now overwrites every other narrative.

I try to will away the stress as I shuffle toward the kitchen, following the aroma of delicious food and the promise of Jack. I kick off my heels, toes aching, and pad forward, stomach clenched tight with a hunger that is definitely not just for dinner.

My man is at the stove, wearing a dark blue button-down and his ancient, threadbare “United States Air Force” apron that was a gag gift from long ago. He looks incredibly handsome, as usual, his brow furrowed in concentration with those broad shoulders looming over a pan. He’s plating something onto real dishes—ceramic, with a blue stripe around the rims. Candles, actual candles, glow at intervals along the kitchen island and the nearby dining table. He’s put out the fancy stemware, too, even though the last time we used it I broke one with a very embarrassing accident involving my elbow and a distraction named Jack’s tongue.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he says, glancing over his shoulder. “Survive the mines today?”

I manage a noise that’s supposed to be a laugh but comes out like a tire puncture. “Barely. But now I see you’ve set up a romantic dinner, which means you either want to sleep with me, or you’ve committed a crime and want to soften the blow.”

He grins, lines around his eyes bunching. “Both, maybe.”

I drop my bag by the counter and let myself admire my boyfriend again for a second. In this light, he looks absolutely magnetic: blue eyes bright, that black hair with its tiny hint of salt at the temples, jaw rough and manly. If he’s nervous about my mood, he doesn’t show it, just turns off the stove and gestures at the nearest barstool.

“Sit. Drink. Eat. In that order,” he says, pouring wine with an easy wrist-flick that would make even my mother forgive his existence for a solid minute.

The kitchen smells like heaven—herbs, meat, something deeply savory—and I have to keep myself from moaning as I sit down and let him fill my glass. He slides a plate of pasta in front of me, cavatelli with what looks like a meat ragu that’s thick and hearty, then settles in on the stool next to me, his knee bumping mine.

“Are you going to eat,” I ask, “or just watch me inhale carbs and cry?”

He grins and lifts his own plate. “I like watching you eat, sweetheart. It’s proof you’re not a robot. Even though you look like one of those cute anime girls when you’re stressed out.”

I twirl pasta on my fork, pile it high, and take a gigantic bite just to prove a point. The first taste nearly makes me weep. Real garlic. Real cheese. “Holy moly,” I croon, “are you secretly Italian? Because this is, like, restaurant level.”

Jack shrugs, obviously pleased. “Pilot training in Sicily. I picked up a few things.”

I swallow another bite and let the quiet envelop us, allowing myself to be cared for, because it feels right with this man. Jack watches me for a beat, then reaches out to tuck a strand of my hair behind my ear. The gesture is so gentle, so unlike anything I ever experienced growing up, that I melt utterly. In a soft voice, I begin. “You know what they’re saying at work, right?”

He nods. “Yeah.”