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“Thank you,” he says, making a face.
When his plate is empty, I ask, “Sophie, will you please bring the cake?”
She pushes back her chair and jumps to her feet. “It’s chocolate, Johan, with frosting.”
He assesses me when she’s gone. “Why do you let her stay here?”
The question catches me by surprise. “I like her. Plus, she’s a minor, and she needs an adult to take care of her.”
He snorts. “I took care of her.”
“You did.” My heart softens. “I’m sure you did the best you could, but you’re a minor too. You also need someone to take care of you.”
His voice hardens. “I can take care of myself.”
“I know you can survive on your own, but that’s not the care I’m talking about.”
“What then?”
“You need someone to provide warm meals every day and healthcare when you need it, an adult who can take care of your education and teach you good values.”
Most of all, he needs love and affection, but I don’t say that. One, I don’t want to hurt him by implying no one loves him because I’m certain that’s not true. His brothers and his sister must love him. I can’t speak for his great-grandfather, but who am I to judge when I know nothing about their dynamic? In his own way, Angelo also cares. And two, Johan’s exaggerated macho behavior gives me reason to think he wouldn’t want to talk about love.
Just as Sophie exits the kitchen with the cake, a car pulls up in the road. A Jaguar.
Johan’s thin shoulders go rigid. He grabs his knife in a fist.
“It’s only Mr. Russo,” I say, leaning across the table to lay a hand on his arm.
“I know who it is,” he grumbles as he puts down the knife and pulls away from my touch.
Sophie leaves the cake on the table and rushes around the veranda. “Angelo!”
The car comes to a stop at the end of the road. There’s no fence around the yard and no gate to give access to the property. For a silly moment, I imagine a picket fence to mark the border of the garden and a gate to make the wilderness of the setting seem more homely. I must be going either crazy or soft.
My husband gets out of the car. His big body is broader than when I first met him. He’s packed on muscles over the years. Dressed in a pair of ripped jeans and a dark sweater, he looks mouthwateringly sexy. I can’t help but stare. His beauty has always been undeniable, his attraction irresistible, however wrong that may be in our circumstances.
Our gazes lock. He gives me a private, heated smile, knowledge sparking in his dark eyes. He knows what he does to me. But then Sophie runs down the path and jumps into his arms, and he looks away as he gives her his attention.
Her young voice carries across the yard. “We made chicken, and I helped Sabella bake a chocolate cake.”
His smile is amused. “Is that so?”
“Did you come for dessert?” she asks, tightening her little arms around his neck.
“Is there enough?”
“Oh, yes.” She nods with enthusiasm. “It’s a big cake.”
“In that case, I’ll definitely join you.”
He looks at Johan over her head as he carries her down the path, caution creeping into his features. At the bottom of the steps, he puts her on her feet.
Johan watches Angelo like a wild animal assessing a situation for danger as my husband approaches with Sophie in tow.
“Hello, Johan,” Angelo says, acting as if finding him here having lunch with us is an everyday occurrence.
“Uncle Angelo,” Johan says, his tone challenging.
