Page 51 of Possessive Mafia Bodyguard

Her lips curve up at the corners, but she pulls a stool out from under the breakfast counter and climbs onto it. I fill a cup with steaming black coffee and place it in front of her, trying to ignore the curve of her breasts where the robe has parted.

She sips it and visibly lowers her shoulders. “What are you making?”

“Fried sausages, scrambled eggs, and tattie scones.”

She furrows her brow. “Tattie scones?”

“It’s an Irish delicacy.” I smile. “Well, maybe delicacy isn’t the right word, but trust me, sweetheart, you’ll love them.”

I focus on the butter melting in the pan while I whisk eggs milk and grated cheese together with a pinch of salt and pepper. I can’t remember the last time I prepared food for two people, and it feels good. Normal. Like the journey I’ve been on since I met Seamus Kavanagh was always going to announce its final stop right here with my beautiful woman sitting across from me while I scramble eggs.

I smile at the notion of jumping ship and slowing down with her. Maybe visiting Dublin together, and Russia if her roots ever feel like tugging her backwards.

She keeps her gaze focused on my hands and the food coming together on the stovetop, and I allow the comfortable silence to settle around us with Yanni’s ‘Aria’ raising goose bumps on my arms and the back of my neck from the sound system.

“Have you ever watched the movie True Romance?” I ask her.

Her eyebrows slide upward. “You watch romance movies?”

“Ah, this is a romance movie like no other.” I stir the eggs in the pan and lower the heat to cook them slowly. “There’s a scene in which this music plays in the background. Dennis Hopper’s character knows he’s going to be murdered by the mafia enforcer, so he tells him a story to speed up the process without revealing the information the Sicilian wants from him. I can’t hear this music without picturing the scene in my head.”

I remove the eggs from the heat and set the pan aside. Then I serve the fried sausages and tattie scones onto two plates and add the eggs last.

I slide a plate across the counter to Tamara with a fork and sit opposite her.

“You hear this music and you think of a man getting killed.” She watches me closely.

I chuckle. “From now on, I’ll hear this music and think of you.”

She lowers her gaze to the plate in front of her. “In a good way?”

“Sweetheart I couldn’t think of you any other way.”

Tamara swallows hard. “I shot your brother.”

“You didn’t kill him.” I fork egg and sausage into my mouth and chew like we’re sitting here discussing the weather.

“He won’t be able to hold a gun for a while.”

“That’s his problem, sweetheart, not yours.”

She sets her fork down and raises her eyes to meet mine. “That’s not how your boss will see it.”

I swallow a mouthful of coffee and hold her gaze. “I’ve known Aiden Kavanagh most of my life. His pa introduced us after he set me the challenge of taking his wallet from his hand and I succeeded. You might think he’s the enemy, but he’s one of the good guys.”

“Even good guys have their limits.”

“Maybe so. But he’ll have already figured out that you didn’t shoot to kill.”

She looks like she has a whole suitcase full of baggage that she’s waiting to offload, but either doesn’t know where to begin or isn’t ready to share it with me yet.

“Eat, Tamara,” I say gently.

“You don’t have to take care of me, Finn.”

“I know, but I want to.”

She forks egg into her mouth, and I follow the transformation from refusal to be coddled, to the moment when the buttery eggs hit a spot and she realizes how ravenous she is. It’s like watching a switch being flicked. She eats as though this is her last meal, cramming fried sausage and egg into her mouth while she’s still chewing. I wait eagerly for her to try my homemade tattie scone, but the food-spark fades from her eyes almost instantly when she tastes it.