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He steps forward and holds out a book. “I bought this for you.”
I grab it too quickly, eager for the human interaction. It is a cookbook. A French cookbook.
“You have another lessen with Cauchon in a few days. I thought you might like to brush up on your French cuisine.”
It is a small gift, but so thoughtful I feel tears burn the backs of my eyes. “Thank you.”
I want to ask him why he got this for me and why he scheduled me another cooking class with Véronique, but I don’t want to break the spell. So, I just smile and run my hands over the book, wondering if it is a peace offering.
“I haven’t seen you around very much,” I say. Understatement of the century, but I’m trying to mend fences, not burn bridges. “Have you been busy?”
He hums a noncommittal response, and I bite my lip. “My father came for lunch today. Though, you already knew that.”
He nods and shoves his hands in his pockets. I want him to sit down and talk to me, but he looks awkward and stiff in the room.
“I made curry, and there are leftovers in the kitchen if you—”
“I have a question,” he says suddenly, cutting me off.
“Okay.” It’s embarrassing how eager I am to please him. “Shoot.”
“Your ex-fiancé, the gunrunner,” he says, as if I have more than one previous engagement. “What’s his name?”
I barely knew the Irish gunrunner, but I didn’t offer up his name on purpose. Because if I did, I knew Luka would go after him. For a multitude of reasons. To ask him about the attack the day of our wedding or to ask him about his arrangement to me. And while I don’t care about the gunrunner at all, I don’t want Luka to put himself in danger. Though, considering the number of times he has come home covered in blood, I suppose that ship has sailed.
“Why does it matter?” I ask.
“I have a nickname for him. It’s Irish, but it translates to ‘horny bull.’” Luka gives me a knowing look and my cheeks flush.
“I wouldn’t know anything about that,” I admit, finally voicing the truth I’ve wanted to tell him from the beginning. “I only met him a few times and my dad was always with us.”
Something like relief crosses Luka’s face before the hardened exterior returns. “Do you know his name?”
I nod. “But I don’t understand why you need to know it. Why any of this matters. Just tell me what you are doing, and I—”
“Are you trying to protect him?” he asks, his top lip curled back in a snarl.
“No!” I set the cookbook down on the piano bench and stand up, walking towards him. He takes a step back. “I don’t care about him. I care about you. I don’t want you doing anything that will get you hurt.”
“Stop lying to me,” he growls.
“You think I’m lying?” I ask, tears rolling down my cheeks now. I don’t even try to hide it. I’ve been hiding my true feelings for weeks, and I can’t do it anymore. I’m a raw nerve, and Luka is about to see all of me. “You think I don’t care about you? I haven’t slept in weeks waiting to hear you come home at night. And when you don’t, terrible thoughts run through my head. I live for the brief glimpses I catch of you coming back for more clothes or to shower. Just knowing you are alive means everything to me. So, no, I don’t want to give you the name of a man who means nothing to me so you can run off and put yourself in danger. If that means I’m disloyal to you, then I’m sorry, but—”
“Give me his name.” His voice is so flat and lifeless, it stops me in my tracks. I stare at him, looking deep into his green eyes, but there is nothing there. No anger or pain or jealousy. Nothing. I barely even recognize him.
I drop down onto the bench, my legs giving out, and shake my head. “Cole Morrison.”
Luka turns around immediately, heading for the door.
“Luka.” I call out to him with no idea of what I want to say. With no idea of how I can make this better. The only thing I know is that I don’t want him to leave.
Surprisingly, he turns around. I don’t know if he is curious or if, like me, he is filled with unspoken thoughts and feelings. His green eyes fall on me, and I plead with him silently, begging him to stay. To stay with me. To cross the room and hold me and be with me and forgive me for all the things he thinks I did.
He doesn’t say anything, and neither do I. After a few seconds, he turns and leaves.
* * *
Isleep in fits and starts, and when I wake up for the fourth time in the middle of the night, I’m starving. I didn’t eat much for lunch and nothing for dinner, and the spicy curry in the fridge sounds like the best thing in the world. So, I crawl out of bed and pad barefoot down to the kitchen, stopping outside of Luka’s door to try and hear anything on the other side. He isn’t there.
