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I blink back the tears. Damn them! Damn him! Damn me. I’m so ridiculous!
He circles one arm around my back and brushes my curls back from my face with his free hand. “What’d I do?” he asks it softer, now.
“I’m sorry,” I gulp then berate myself for apologizing. “I’m being stupid. Let’s drop it.”
He doesn’t move, just stares down at me. “We’re not dropping it. Just say it.”
I shrug, defeated. It’s so freaking embarrassing, but I admit it. “You could communicate a little more. You know—call to let me know you’re coming here instead of the shop?”
Yep, I sound clingy. His expression turns vacant, and he releases me and steps back, just as I expected.
“I told you—I’m being stupid. You’re not my boyfriend.” I throw my arms in the air. “I don’t know what the hell you are, but you’re not that.” I pick up my bowl of food again and walk around Armando, who’s just standing there like a stone statue. I flop down on the sofa and turn the volume back up.
Armando doesn’t move. I see nothing on the TV screen, even though my gaze steadily fixes on it. All I can do is force myself to swallow down the emotion in my throat. He’s going to leave now, and that’s fine. That’s what needs to happen. Because the sooner I get him out of here, the sooner I can stop caring.
He walks to the door but stops and stands there, facing it. When he turns back, I dart a glance at him. “I can’t be your boyfriend, Hannah.” He sounds ancient. Exhausted.
I cringe. I don’t want to hear this. I definitely don’t want to hear this.
“I got nothing to offer. I’m fucking empty and dead and apparently one inch from having someone blow off my head.”
“I know,” I rush to agree, wanting to end this conversation. “Can we forget it?”
“I’m an asshole for staying here. I know I’m a dick for taking from you when I have nothing to give.” He gives me a long, unfathomable look. “But I don’t want to leave.” He shoves his hands in his pockets.
My stomach’s up in my throat, and I can’t breathe. I don’t know what to say.
He shrugs. “You want me to go, I’ll go. That’s all you gotta say. Your choice.”
Like a fool, I get up and rush to him, wrapping my arms around his middle and pressing my face against his chest. His arms band around me, strong and protective. This guy would kill for me in a heartbeat. I know that already. Loyalty is his gig, and I’m under his protection.
“I don’t want you to go,” I admit. My belly shudders trying to hold in a sob.
He slides his hand into my curls and massages the back of my head. “Cry for me, Flowers,” he murmurs, resting his chin on top of my head.
I sob a little into his shirt. “That’s so wrong.”
“Maybe I’ll wake up,” he murmurs. “Maybe I’ll wake up and be your prince.”
My prince. He already is my prince. Maybe that’s not saying much, maybe that’s just proof that I haven’t dated any men of quality. Or maybe I just desperately want him to be my prince. I want to believe there’s a happily-ever-after for the two of us. Love will conquer all and all that sap.
But for now, it’s enough. Knowing he wants to wake up and be my prince is everything.
And I also love him for accepting my tears. Never once has this guy told me not to cry, and I’ve been told that my whole damn life by nearly everyone in it.
Armando tells me to cry more. To cry for him. Cry his tears.
It makes them like a tribute. Gives them meaning. Makes them pass through me more easily. I dry my cheeks with my fingers. “What are you watching?” I say to bring things back to normal.
“Old Parks ‘n Rec episodes. Come here.” He takes my hand and my bowl of food and pulls me to the couch. “What do you want to watch?”
I curl up beside him, and he puts his arm around me, tucking me into his side as he opens Netflix and scrolls through my recommendations.
“Married to the Mob,” I blurt then regret it because now he’s going to think I want to marry him. I’m sure my subconscious produced it because I’ve been mulling over the consequences of dating someone in the mafia.
“Oh Christ,” he mutters but looks it up.
“We don’t have to watch it,” I backpedal.
“Nah, it’s funny. And Michelle Pfeiffer’s hot. Just don’t ask me if anything’s realistic.”
“I won’t,” I promise, but I want to. I want to know everything there is to know.
Even more because he won’t tell me. But I also love that he keeps the lines so clear.
Shadow mews and jumps up on the couch then promptly curls up in Armando’s lap as he pulls up the movie. He sets the remote down and rubs under Shadow’s chin.
