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A bead of sweat trickles down his neck, disappearing into the collar of his shirt.
God, I think to myself. He looks so hot.
An image of him doing the same chores topless enters my mind.
I shake my head to clear myself of the vision.
He pauses, wiping his brow, and glances over his shoulder.
Even from here, I can see the intensity in his gaze, the way he watches the surrounding area like a hawk for any signs of danger.
My heart squeezes, warmth blossoming inside me.
He may be the son of a mafia don, but beneath that rough exterior beats the heart of a protector.
And he's protecting us.
Protecting me.
I press my palm against the window, a smile curving my lips.
Maybe being in an arranged marriage to a dangerous man isn't so bad after all.
At least, not when he looks out for me like I'm the only thing that matters.
***
I shower, get dressed and head downstairs.
Martha shuffles into the kitchen, her orthopedic shoes scuffing against the linoleum floor.
“Morning, dearie. Hungry?”
My stomach churns at the thought of food, the smell of freshly baked pancakes turning my appetite.
I force a smile. “Starving.”
She beams, pleased, and sets a plate laden with pancakes drowning in syrup before me.
I pick up my fork, poke at the fluffy cakes, and take a small bite.
It's all I can do not to gag.
The sweetness is cloying, sticking to the roof of my mouth.
I swallow hard, chasing the bite with a gulp of milk.
“Something wrong, sweet pea?”
The old lady frowns, wrinkles creasing her weathered face.
“Just not very hungry,” I lie.
If I tell her the truth, she'll only worry.
And there's nothing to worry about.
Just a touch of nausea, that's all.
