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She gives a small nod. Her watery blue eyes shine with hope. “O-okay. What do you need to know?”
* * *
Throughout October, Salvatore and I develop a routine at the loft. It feels curiously familiar to our past. Once upon a time, during the summer before I left for Dupoint, I’d all but moved into his apartment. For weeks we acted like a real couple, spending lazy evenings together, pretending our relationship wasn’t forbidden. We’d even take Salvatore’s dog Chip for walks around the block.
These days, it’s similar, though we’re older and Chip has been replaced by two temperamental cats. The routine goes like this:
Salvatore waits on me when I get off from city hall. We decide what we’ll be doing for dinner that evening. Some nights we go out to a discreet restaurant—he usually pays a handsome fee in order to get it shut down, allowing us the privacy we need. Other nights we stay in and order delivery or cook ourselves. The nights we cook become some of my favorite. Neither of us are talented in the kitchen, which makes it that much more amusing when we struggle to put together a successful meal.
“Salvatore,” I giggle, sipping from my glass of wine, “that chicken isburnt!”
“It’s not burnt. It’s extra crispy.”
“With charcoal.”
He glares. “You’re one to talk. Didn’t you try and serve overcooked spaghetti?”
“That was how many nights ago?” I roll my eyes, though my cheeks warm. “And I don’t know what you’re talking about. It tasted delicious.”
“Even Salt and Pepa wouldn’t touch it.”
He ducks as I fling a dinner roll at him. It hits him anyway, bouncing off his abdomen before it drops to the kitchen floor and tumbles under the counter. He pins me with a hard, scolding stare that would probably scare most people.
Instead, I giggle again. “What?”
“You going to pick that up?”
“I’m still in my pencil skirt from the day.”
“I know,” he answers, the vague hint of a grin working the corner of his lips. “That’s the idea.”
If my skin was warm before, it burns now. Outside the temperature is chilly, with drizzle predicted throughout the night. Weather forecasters advise citizens to bundle up and crank the heat in their homes. Yet here I am about to break a sweat as though it’s summer time and not the middle of October.
After dinner, our evening usually goes one of two ways. If Salvatore is working a night at the club, he’ll hang around as long as he can before he heads out so late, I’m moments away from getting ready for bed. On nights he’s off, we crash on the sofa with the cats and watch movies.
Salt and Pepa climb up and wedge themselves between us. If I didn’t know any better, it’s out of jealousy.
But Salvatore doesn’t take offense. I’m shocked as he attempts to get on their good side. He’s even resorted to enticing them with tuna on several occasions. Slowly, but surely, it works.
“I thought you said you weren’t a cat person?” I raise both brows.
He shrugs and scratches Salt under his chin. “I’m not. This is a one-time exception.”
I smile. He doesn’t say it, but he doesn’t need to. I get it.
They’re my cats. That’s why he’s making the exception.
Our evenings begin feeling like intimate ones shared by a couple. We try our best to keep things platonic. I wear the baggiest T-shirts and sweatpants whenever we’re relaxing on the couch, but that doesn’t stop Salvatore from noticing even the subtlest curve hidden underneath. While he tries to be discreet, his blue-green gaze is too piercing—I canfeelhis eyes on me.
I’m hardly any better. Even in the aftermath of my assault, I’ve never been more sexually frustrated. More desperate to just feel like a normal woman again, unafraid to be touched by a man she desires.
One inhale of Salvatore’s personal cologne or brush of his hand and I’m craving him. I’ve spent more nights lying awake fantasizing about him than I’d ever like to admit. The worst part being that he’s often only a few doors down the hall.
But I can’t fantasize about my ex-boyfriend forever. I’m going to have to live my life again. Date another man. Attempt some semblance of a healthy, romantic,sexualrelationship.
Salvatore won’t like it, but he’ll have to accept my choice. I need to move on with my life. I need to feel in control of it.
“You seem tired,” Salvatore says one evening when I yawn. We’re washing dishes and cleaning up the kitchen after a disastrous attempt at chicken parmesan. He twists off the faucet and wipes down the last dish.
