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“You should.” Jackie turned to Meredith with a frown. “Do you have any Azo? I’ve got a bitch of a UTI that’s burning a hole through my catheter.”
“Check the cabinet by the microwave,” Meredith said.
“So... we’re just going to go to bed.” I pushed open my door and ushered Dario inside before he knew all four of our menstrual cycles.
“I missed you, B.” Jackie sidled inside before I got the door closed and wrapped her UTI-infested arms around me. I grudgingly accepted the hug, then motioned her toward the door. She winked at Dario and strolled toward the door with the speed of a drunk caterpillar.
“And… you’re staying here.” Meredith repeated the statement for the fifth or sixth time since he stepped in the front door.
I intervened. “YES. He owns lots of hotel rooms. He’s staying here in this loony, infection riddled, house. He’s Papa John with an annoying cast of roommates. Now GO AWAY.”
I pushed her as gently as I could manage and swung the door shut, the action blocked by her foot. I pushed the door harder, and her eyes narrowed. Her toes must be pure steel. Funny that I never noticed that before, at all our movie nights and pedicure parties.
“Be careful, B.” She said the words so softly I almost missed them.
I met her eyes and fought the urge to give her another hug. Be careful? I didn’t even know how to go about doing that. “This week, you and me. Lunch?”
She smiled. “Sushi at Transit?”
I nudged her foot with the door, and she reluctantly moved it. “It’s a date.”
“Oh, Bell?”
Something in her voice caused me to stop. I raised my eyebrows, and she grinned at me.
“You might wanna check the fridge before you head to bed.”
I watched her go, then turned to see Dario, in the middle of my room, one of my pillows in hand. My stomach growled, a reminder that I hadn’t eaten since before our flight.
He caught my expression. “What?”
“Don’t get comfortable yet.” I reached for his hand and pulled him toward the kitchen. If my instincts were right, he wouldn’t want to miss this.
Fifteen
“Fuck me.”
“I can’t take anymore.”
“Just suck it off.”
Meredith stopped in the doorway to the kitchen and crossed her arms. “Are you guys fucking or eating?”
Dario turned toward her, a fork in hand, pierced into a wedge of lasagna. “Have you tasted this?” He held it out to her. “It’s insane. Better than Bartellos.”
She smirked. “Uh… yeah? It’s Momma Hartley’s. Best lasagna on the planet.” She stole his fork and stuck the bite in her mouth. “You don’t know what I’ve had to do to keep Jackie and Lydia away from this. It’s been the freaking Hunger Games, trying to hold them at bay.”
I blew her a kiss and tried, unsuccessfully, to take one final bite. I lifted the fork, paused in front of my mouth, then set it back down. “I can’t. Dario?”
He waved me off, leaning back in the chair to stretch. I heard the wood creak, and Meredith and I both eyed the Target special with skepticism.
I stood, reaching for the paper plates and tossing them in the trash. I grabbed the Saran Wrap and Meredith stopped me.
“You guys go to bed. I’ll wrap up what’s left.”
“Thanks. I love you.”
She smiled and pulled me in for another hug. “I love you too.”
Dario bumped into the table when he stood, and the view of him in our cramped kitchen was comical. I stifled a smile and headed for the bedroom, feeling him close behind me, the gentle run of his fingers along the small of my back. We stopped at my bedroom door, and I looked back at him, his large frame blocking out the hall light, a smile stretching across his face as he dropped his head and kissed me.
“Come on.” I pushed open the door and pulled him inside. “Let’s go to bed.”
He was too long for the mattress. I pulled my pajama top on and stared at his feet, which hung off the end.
He caught my look and groaned, rolling onto his side, the bed frame squeaking loudly in response.
“Don’t look at me like that. If it were up to me, we’d be in a Ritz Carlton.”
It was true. We’d actually had a reservation, one made somewhere above Vegas, for a presidential suite with a jacuzzi tub. But when we’d touched down, and I’d stepped off the plane and inhaled the familiar dry air of the desert … I’d only wanted to go home. I’d wanted to see Meredith. I’d wanted my pajamas and my face wash and my bed with the marigold sheets and fuzzy pillows. My queen bed that was currently dying under the additional weight of him.
I buttoned the front of my pajamas and reconsidered the Ritz Carlton reservation.
As soon as we’d gotten in the car, I’d broached the idea of taking me home. He’d made a number of excellent points that included words like room service, morning massages, and personal butler. I’d held firm to my desire to sleep in my own bed, using my own words like middle of the freaking swamp and I have the vagina so I make the rules. He finally conceded, but only under the agreement that he stayed with me. It was easy to agree to. I didn’t want to leave his side, and my fear hadn’t dissolved entirely. Sure, Robert Hawk was dead. But did that completely remove the threat?
