AllFreeNovel
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I absentmindedly brush my fingers over my necklace. I can’t believe the woman who gave it to me was his mother. Now, my memory of her in that dark alley is tinted rose pink. She’s not a nameless guardian angel, but Maria Visconti: the woman who gave birth to the man I’m ridiculously in love with.
But still, it’s not enough.
Sure, my heart wants to dance to the tune of stars aligning, but my head is bitter with betrayal. A man fucking me over is a song all-too familiar, and I’m not able to let it go so easily.
I know it’s only been a few hours, but I haven’t heard a peep from Rafe yet. The closest I’ve had to contact is coming home and finding I have a new front door. I wish he’d replaced my sofa while he was at it; I’m currently sitting on a cushion on the floor because my Craigslist purchase lies in tatters behind me.
Late afternoon bleeds into night, the time passing to a soundtrack of unrelenting rain and endless health insurance commercials. My ass starts to go numb, and as I rise to stretch out my stiff limbs, there’s a sharp knock on the front door.
About time.I pad down the hall, stomach grumbling at the thought of cold pizza. But when I open the door, my heart leaps a few inches, then beats a little faster.
It’s not Matt, but Rafe.
He’s all sharp suit and suave silhouette, looking down at my welcome mat in amusement.
“It’s not even a funny pun.”
I can only stare at him. “What are you doing here?”
His gaze climbs my sweats and traps me. “I’m groveling.”
I blink. “Groveling?”
“Mm.” He produces a bouquet from behind his back. “Grovels start with flowers.” I frown at the roses in his hands. They’re blood red and confusing. Rafe takes advantage of my disbelief by sliding me to the side and strolling into my apartment. “According to Google, anyway,” he continues, before disappearing into my kitchen. “But Google also thinks I’m thirty-eight and own a Rottweiler named Cookie, so who really knows?”
I follow him in and hover awkwardly in the kitchen doorway. He sets the roses down and opens cupboards and drawers like he owns the place. “Do you have a vase?”
“What?”
He glances at me, amused. “For the flowers.”
“Um, no?”
“Figures. A jug?” He surveys my off-white counters, squinting in displeasure. “A bong?”
His passive-aggressive dig at my apartment brings me back to my senses. “I have a trash can you can use. You can throw yourself in it too, if you’d like.”
With a smirk, he twists my Nutribullet off its stand and brings it to the sink. He palms the counter as he waits for the tap to run cold, then puts the smoothie-glass under it. “Go get dressed.”
“I am dressed.”
He glances back at me. “Not for dinner, you’re not.”
“I’ve had dinner,” I lie.
In the reflection of the window, I see his jaw tighten. “I’m sure you’ll fit in another.”
“Are you calling me fat?”
He practically punches the tap off. “Baby, I’m calling you a girl who eats two dinners every single night. That’s just a fact. I’ve seen it with my own eyes.” He turns, leans against the sink, and studies me. “You’re not going to make this easy for me, are you?”
My throat dries up, and I shake my head slowly. “You don’t deserve easy.”
We stare at each other, rain hammering glass the only sound filling my kitchen. Then his chest caves as he lets out a tense breath. “Come here.”
I don’t move. First of all, why the fuck should I? He’s got legs too. Second of all, “come here” means I have to go ‘“over there” and “there” is where bad decisions are made. External factors, like his hot hands that know exactly where to touch me, make all rationale bleed out of my brain.
I’m safer over here.
