Page 19

“Sit,” Domenico says. He doesn’t look up from the tablet he’s reading, his thumb scrolling slowly across the screen.

I’m glad he doesn’t look up, because when he does, I fall under the spell of his icy-blues. Seriously, this man—my husband—can hold me in place with his eyes alone.

I walk to the chair and pull it out. The legs scrape against the oak, the sound too loud in the quiet room. As soon as I’m seated, I wrap my hands around the mug. It’s hot, burning my palms through the ceramic, but I don’t let go.

Donna places a plate in front of me—scrambled eggs, bacon, toast with butter already melting into the bread. Simple food. Good food.

“Enjoy.” She beams. “And don’t forget to let me know if you ever want anything else.”

I look at her with softness in my eyes. Donna always exudes serenity and no-nonsense in equal measure. It’s a talent I’m sure she’s spent most of her forty-six years learning. I wasn’t going to ask her age, but the first day I met her, she told me.

“Thank you, Donna,” I say softly.

She smiles again, nodding, then retreats to the counter where she’s arranging something in a bowl. She’s present but unobtrusive, like furniture that breathes.

I pick up my fork and push the eggs around. Domenico takes a sip of his coffee, the movement fluid and controlled. He still hasn’t looked at me directly. The silence stretches between us, thick and vibrating.

Toast crunches between my teeth as I take a bite. Even though I’m hungry, it tastes like cardboard. I keep my eyes on my plate for a long moment, watching the steam rise from the eggs, then I set my fork down and force myself to look up.

“Do you not like the food?” Domenico asks as soon as our eyes meet. “We also have—”

“The food’s fine,” I interrupt, immediately feeling bad for doing that.

“So, what’s the problem?”

I frown at my husband’s choice of words. Why does there have to be a problem? Can’t I just be overwhelmed, confused, and so far out of my depth I struggle to eat? Out of the corner of my eye, I see Donna leave quietly. I don’t blame her.

“What do you expect from me?” I ask instead of answering his question.

“Expect?” he echoes, arching an eyebrow.

I roll my lips between my teeth and bite the tender flesh. “Yes,” I confirm with a nod, wrapping my hands around the mug in front of me to give them something to do. “I mean…” I struggle to come up with the words. “We weren’t expected to marry, but we did. So what do you expect from me? It’s been a week and all I do is sit around. Is there something you want me to be doing?”

Domenico slowly sets his cup down as he leans back in his chair. The tattoos on his forearms peek out from beneath his cuffs.

His expression is carved from stone. “It’s up to you.”

The answer is so vague, so maddeningly open-ended, that I feel my fingernails dig into my palms. “That’s not an answer.”

“Sure it is.” He smirks. “You need to learn to use your words, Kira. Ask exactly what you want to know. Don’t dance pointlessly around the subject and open yourself up to vague answers.”

With a huff, I pick up my coffee and take a sip that scalds my tongue. I swallow and set the mug down with more force than necessary. “How am I supposed to spend my time? What do you want me doing while you’re off being… whatever you are?”

“Whatever I am,” he repeats, and there’s a hint of dark amusement in his voice. He unfolds his hands and picks up his own fork, taking a bite of eggs. He chews slowly, watching me, making me wait. “What did you do before we got married? Were you in college?”

I don’t know what surprises me more: that he doesn’t know, or that he isn’t giving me orders. Or maybe he already knows and is testing me. God, I need to stop overthinking everything.

Clearing my throat, I say, “I worked at Saint Benedict’s. The church where we…” I gesture vaguely, indicating the wedding. “… my mom used to be the communications manager, and I assisted her. Since her accident, I’d taken on more of her responsibilities. I also did some secretary work and sang in the choir.”

He nods as though the information is confirmation rather than news. “And do you want to continue this?”

“Yes,” I reply without hesitation. “I mean, if you’ll let me.”

He holds my gaze for a long moment. The morning light catches the silver at his temples, highlighting the sharp planes of his cheekbones. He is terrifyingly handsome in a way that makes my heart beat as if I’ve run a marathon.

“You’re not a prisoner, Kira.” His tone suggests that should be obvious. “You can do whatever you want.”

I’m not? That’s the first time he’s told me that.