Page 36 of Married to the Enemy

That was the heavenly part, Mia thought as she walked into the living room one afternoon. The space had been transformed into a makeshift gym. Evangeline, who had once seemed so frail and diminished in the nursing home, now sat upright with a pink resistance band in her hands, pulling with determination. Freddy, focused and sweaty, was pushing through his reps with a gleam in his eyes. He still couldn’t work out his leg, but he was busy lifting arm weights, saying he was getting mentally prepared for the next steps.

And Raffe—Raffe stood at the center of it all, coaching, correcting, encouraging. His voice was firm but patient, steady as a drumbeat.

It was chaos, yes. But maybe this was what heaven looked like—her grandmother strong again, Freddy hopeful again, and a man with shoulders broad enough to carry all of them when they stumbled.

Of course, it was also hell—because the more she watched Raffe move through her home as if he belonged there, the harder it became to remind herself that he didn’t.

Chapter 22

Was this what being a family felt like?

The smell of onions and garlic filled the kitchen, sharp and savory, the kind of savory scent that clung to skin and hair and made the whole house feel warmer. Raffe bent over the cutting board, forcing his focus on the knife, on the steady rhythm of chopping, on anything except the sound of Mia’s light footsteps coming down the hall.

She appeared with a basket of clothes fresh from the dryer, her cheeks still pink from the warmth of the laundry room. As he watched, she set the basket on the island opposite him. She hummed under her breath as she pulled out a sweatshirt, then a pair of jeans, folding them neatly.

Raffe cleared his throat, shifted his grip on the knife. Focus. Onions, peppers, garlic. Not her.

But he couldn’t stop his eyes from sliding over when she plucked out something smaller—tiny lace-trimmed panties, delicate as a whisper. She folded them quickly, trying for casual, but her cheeks flushed faintly as she tucked them under her stack of leggings and jeans.

Raffe’s knife hit the board with a louder thud than intended.

“Anyway,” Mia continued breezily, as if nothing had happened, “I’ve been looking at this new camera lens online. It’s not cheap, but it would be perfect for capturing detail in low light. The kind of detail you need when you’re trying to…” She trailed off, fishing out another article of clothing.

This time, it was a thong. Barely a strip of fabric, and for a moment, Raffe pictured—

He swore under his breath, nearly chopping into his own thumb.

Mia stuffed the thong beneath a sweatshirt, her tone still determinedly casual. “I’m not saying I’ll buy it right away, but maybe next month. There’s this stunning old cathedral in Florence I’ve always wanted to shoot, and the shadows in the arches…”

Raffe forced his gaze back down, chopping too fast, the knife clattering against the board. He only caught fragments of her words. Lens. Shadows. Florence. All he could think of was her bare feet on the cool tile, the sweet smell of laundry mixed with the bite of onions, and those damn scraps of fabric that passed as underwear.

Then she pulled out a pair of his boxers, folded them neatly, continuing to hum under her breath as if she hadn’t just set his blood pressure through the roof.

The knife slipped.

“Damn it!” He jumped, a line of red beading along the side of his finger.

“Raffe!” Mia was at his side instantly, dropping his folded clothes back onto the basket. She grabbed his wrist before he could pull away, her dark eyes frowning up at him. “You should be more careful.”

“I’m fine,” he grumbled, though he didn’t move. Couldn’t.

She led him to the sink, running the cut under cold water, then pulled a clean towel from a drawer. Her touch was tender, practiced, as if she’d done this a thousand times before. But her silence now, after all her cheerful chatter, made the room feel charged.

The world narrowed to the brush of her fingers against his skin, the way her hair slipped forward over her shoulder as she bent close. He could smell her shampoo, something light and floral, battling against the garlic and peppers.

She wrapped the towel around his finger, then lifted her gaze to his. For one suspended heartbeat, neither of them remembered to breathe.

Raffe leaned in, just slightly, his hand still in hers, her lips parted as if she was waiting—

The creak of wheels on tile shattered the moment.

Evangeline rolled into the kitchen, smiling knowingly as she glanced from her granddaughter to Raffe. “Well, well,” she said cheerfully, holding up a grocery bag with triumph. “I hope that chili’s ready soon. I found the cornbread mix.”

Mia dropped Raffe’s hand like it burned her. He straightened, jaw tight, shoving his bleeding finger back under the tap as if it were the most pressing emergency in the room.

Evangeline’s eyes twinkled as she set the bag on the counter. “Don’t let me interrupt.” Then she turned and rolled out of the kitchen.

Mia moved away, unable to look at him. “I’ll just…finish folding in the other room.” She grabbed the laundry basket and walked out, leaving him in pain.