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Rocco’s steps are long, and I have to trot to keep up as well as catch up to him, even though he slows some, waiting for me by the elevator.
“It’s just until I get things sorted, okay?” he reminds me, reading my mind again, picking up on my mood, my feelings even long before I say anything.
I feel my mouth open, ready to say something, but the elevator door opens, and I gasp.
Certain that the guy coming out is from the Portello’s restaurant, one of their thugs sent to kill us.
Rocco’s unfazed and grips my hand tighter, moving us both to one side so the man can pass.
“It’s just some random guy, Jasmine. Relax, will ya?” Rocco murmurs in my ear. But he makes sure to close the doors quickly.
He makes sure nobody else can get in before we head up.
“Sorry,” I mutter. “But is it gonna take long for you to do whatever it is you have to do? Not even one full day of this and my nerves are shot already,” I murmur.
But Rocco’s not angry, and he doesn’t tell me off for whining.
His look tells me he’s already thought it over a million times, and the truth is that he just doesn’t know when we can feel one hundred percent ‘safe.’
Maybe we never will?
The doors ping open, and the sounds of a busy shopping crowd drown out our thoughts.
“Let’s just get some clothes and then find somewhere to stay,” Rocco says in a low tone.
My hand’s in his, and he squeezes it, but I can’t help feeling bad for even thinking about what I just brought up, let alone saying it out loud.
Here and now of all the times and places.
There are a ton of stores and boutiques to choose from in the mall, and the escalator leading up to the food court catches both our attention.
I feel my mouth watering when I smell the fresh bagels and coffee.
The rest of me is even wetter as I catch sight of myself hand in hand with the most amazing man alive as we pass storefront windows.
“We can grab a bite soon. Just need out of these clothes,” Rocco says, and he has no argument from me there.
“Just a few things,” I declare once we find a place he likes the look of.
Imported Italian fashion, what else?
Clothes have never been my strong point, so shopping for what I want vs. what Rocco wants to see me in ends in a slight marathon shopping experience.
“Just a few things?” I remind him as he’s paying.
If he’s disguising me in a new outfit and disguising himself as a guy carrying twenty bags and boxes, he’s succeeded.
I offer to carry my share, but Rocco’s firm on carrying everything, letting me guide him a little.
His own choice of new clothes looks practically identical to what he had on.
Jeans, a T-shirt, and a leather jacket, but I guess given his size, it’s hard for him to blend in or really change his appearance.
But something seems to be bugging him, and it’s not from carrying so many boxes by the time he stops.
He tells me we’re being followed. Giving me strict instructions to do what he says.
Keeping the boxes and bags all around him, he doubles back to the original elevator we came up in, and in a few moments, we’re right back where we started at the old truck.
