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I stab at my eggs again, feeling more than a little prickly. I both want him to go and wish he wouldn’t leave—and that mingled feeling makes me want to get up and run away, out of my own house. I have enough to deal with already. I don’t need this, too.
I think of the other bedroom down the hall, the one with boxes stacked up, full of books I won’t read and records that I can’t stand to listen to, and my father’s clothes that I haven’t been able to give away. I could have given Dante something to wear from one of those boxes, but I can’t imagine telling him where those clothes are from, and why I have them. I can’t imagine letting him—or anyone—so close.
We finish breakfast in silence, and I hear the buzzer from the washing machine go off from the other side of the condo. “I’ll toss them in the dryer,” I blurt out, carrying my dish to the sink, and hurry out of the room before Dante can say anything else.
I half think he might follow me, the way he did in the shower, but this time he doesn’t. I’m grateful for that, at least, as I throw his wet clothes into the dryer, leaning back against it as I close my eyes for a moment and wonder how upset Rico would be if I called out sick. I can’t think of the last time I did that. Ordinarily, I’d do it and deal with his mood later. But considering how things have gone in the last week, I’m not sure that’s a good idea.
When I walk back into the kitchen, Dante is at the sink, washing the dishes. The towel is still wrapped around his hips, and I freeze in the doorway, staring at him. For a moment, I’m not entirely sure that I believe what I’m seeing.
“You don’t have to do that,” I croak, wondering if I’ve fallen into some alternate reality. “Seriously. I can do the dishes later. Do you even know how—”
“I’m not entirely helpless, Emma.” Dante glances over his shoulder, his mouth crooking upwards at the corner. “I can manage to wash a few dishes after you made me breakfast.”
“I—” I have no idea what to say. The last thing I ever expected to see was this man in my kitchen,cleaning. “I guess I’ll—go get dressed, then.”
I retreat to the bedroom, trying not to think too hard about the picture of Dante in nothing but a towel, standing over my sink, or how much it made me feel as if I’d like to see that again. Maybe more than once, maybe day after day—him here, sharing mornings like these with me. It’s a tantalizing thought, and I suck in a breath, closing the bedroom door behind me as if it can shut the image out, too.
It’s loneliness. It’s how empty this house is. He doesn’t belong here, and he never could. Youknowthat.
I do, I really do. And I know that if I let myself start to fantasize about things being different, I’ll only end up hurting myself in the end.
I throw on a pair of cutoff shorts and a soft black denim shirt that’s a little too big, rolling up the sleeves and pulling on a pair of Docs—a gift from my dad a few birthdays ago. He’d said they were the sort of boots that would last forever, and I’m grateful for that, because so little seems to.
I leave my hair down, running my fingers through it a handful of times before I realize what I’m doing.It doesn’t matter what he thinks of how you look,I tell myself—and unfortunately, I know that’s true, but not for the reasons I’m trying to convince myself of. I want to believe it’s because anything further between us should be avoided—but the truth is that he’s going to want me no matter what I look like. This morning was proof enough of that.
I hear the dryer cycle go off, and I stride down the hall, scooping his clothes out. Dante is putting dishes up in a cupboard when I walk back to the kitchen, and I have to stop myself from admiring the flex of his back muscles as I clear my throat in the doorway.
“You didn’t have to do all that.” I thrust the clothes out in front of me, trying desperately not to let my gaze rake down the front of him, either, when he turns. He looks like he was sculpted from marble, all taut olive skin over rippling muscle, and I have the wild urge to fall to my knees and drag my tongue over those lines at either side of his hips while pulling the towel down.
It feels as if it takes a monumental amount of self-control not to do exactly that. More self-control than I’ve ever needed around a man, that’s for sure.
“After what you did for me last night? It’s the least I could do.” Dante flashes me a smile that looks so sincere I can’t help but believe him. It doesn’t look as if there’s any guile in it, any attempt to charm me into thinking he means something that he really doesn’t.
I think this man actually did my dishes and put them up because he appreciates what I did for him.And he should,the small voice in my head reminds me.It’s not like you just gave him a ride. You patched him up after he was beaten within an inch of his life.
I clear my throat again as Dante takes the clothes out of my hands. “You’re sure this—you’re sure I don’t need to worry?”
“They’re not going to bother with you,” Dante says gently. “I mean that in the kindest way possible, Emma. And whatever problems they have with me, I’ll handle it. Besides, when you’re at my place to work on the tattoo—”
“Shit,” I breathe aloud. “Turn around.” My cheeks flush as I say it—I’d been so caught up in admiring Dante’s body that I hadn’t thought about the damage that might have been done to the tattoo.
“Oh?” Dante’s eyebrow rises, a smirk on the corners of his lips, and I glare at him.
“Turn around.”
He laughs softly, raising his hands in mock surrender as he starts to turn—the towel dangerously shifting as he does so. “Far be it from me to argue with the woman who regularly has sharp needles in my skin.”
I roll my eyes at him, ignoring the heated flush that starts to creep up my cheeks at the banter. I don’t want to think about how easy it is, hownormalour conversation feels, how much fun it is to stand here in my living room and tease each other.
I also really,reallywant to find out if his tattoo was damaged.
Dante turns his back to me, and I reach out to touch him without thinking, my mind entirely on business for a moment. The healed lines of the tattoo that are at the very base of his back are unharmed, but I can see where the scabbing on some of the newer lines was torn away, leaving pinkened flesh that will heal lighter than the dark, solid lines below. “We’ll have to touch this up,” I say softly, ghosting my fingers near the unhealed lines. I feel him stiffen at my touch, and I drop my hand. “Sorry.”
“No need to apologize.” Dante’s voice is suddenly hoarse, and I realize with a sudden drop in my stomach that I didn’t hurt him. His reaction was for something very different. Even my light touch turned him on.
The thought makes my pulse pick up to an almost dizzying degree. It’s hard to imagine that I could have that kind of effect on this man, but he’s standing here, his muscles suddenly tense—evidence that it’s the truth. I have a feeling if he turned around now, he’d be hard under the towel.
A rush of desire floods me, and I swallow hard. We have to finish up and leave, or we’re going to be fucking on my living room floor in the next five minutes.
