Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 84219 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 421(@200wpm)___ 337(@250wpm)___ 281(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 84219 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 421(@200wpm)___ 337(@250wpm)___ 281(@300wpm)
I shrug. “Franco’s protective of me.”
“So freaking lucky,” she mutters as she walks to the door. “We’ll talk some more later.”
When Jenny heads back to the elevator, I walk to Franco’s office.
This time I shut the door behind me so we don’t get caught by any other employees.
“How did it go?” he asks from where he’s sitting behind his desk.
“She’s surprised but seems happy for me.”
I walk closer and say, “I’m going to a wedding dress fitting with her on Saturday morning.”
The corner of his mouth lifts as he asks, “For yourself or Miss Hoffman?”
“Duh, for Jenny. Who am I getting married to?”
“Me.”
I raise an eyebrow at him and cross my arms over my chest. “I don’t remember you asking me to marry you.”
“I’m asking you now.”
I give him a have-you-lost-your-mind look. “No.”
His smile grows wider. “No, what?”
“No, I won’t marry you,” I mutter.
“Why?”
I turn around and walk to the door. “Because your proposal sucks.”
Leaving his office, I take a seat at my desk and get back to work.
A few seconds later the phone starts ringing, and seeing it’s an internal call from Franco’s office, I answer, “It’s still a no from me.”
Hanging up, I work hard to suppress the smile.
My cellphone vibrates, and opening the screen I burst out laughing when I read the message.
Franco: I’m spanking your ass tonight for hanging up on me. Are you finished with the letter?
Samantha: I look forward to it, and yes, give me five minutes, and I’ll bring it to you so you can sign it.
Standing in Franco’s state-of-the-art kitchen, I grate cheese because whoever does the shopping apparently doesn’t know you buy shredded cheese.
Franco’s stirring a tomato-based sauce for the pasta we’re having for dinner.
“Who does the grocery shopping?” I ask.
“Milo,” Franco murmurs as if he’s deep in thought.
I glance over my shoulder. “And the cleaning?”
“I have a cleaning service come in twice a week.”
Franco’s stirring the sauce slowly, a far away look in his eyes.
I place the cheese on the counter, and going to stand next to him, I ask, “Is everything okay?”
He glances at me. “Yes. Why?”
“You seem preoccupied.”
He shakes his head. “It just hit me how good it is to have you here.” He lets out a deep breath. “Doing something as simple as preparing dinner with you.”
I lift my hand and rub it up and down his back. “I’m enjoying it too.”
“I’d like to make a habit of it. Us cooking dinner while talking.”
Smiling at him, I murmur, “I’d like that very much.”
He leans down to steal a kiss before he checks the sauce and moves the pan from the stove.
We’re quiet while we dish up, and when we’re sitting at the island with a glass of wine, I mention, “Did I tell you I have a house in Houston?”
He nods and swallows a bite of pasta.
“I want to go back there so I can pack all my belongings and hire a moving company to bring everything here.”
“I can send some men to Houston to take care of it for you,” he offers.
“Really? You don’t mind?”
“Of course not. I’ll have them bring your belongings to my house.” He reaches across the marble top and gives my hand a squeeze, then he asks, “What are you going to do with the house?”
“As soon as it’s cleared out, I’m selling it.”
Feeling like a weight is being lifted off my shoulders, I admit, “I actually dreaded going back to Houston.”
“It’s understandable, baby. If you want, I’ll take care of selling the house.”
I give him a grateful smile. “I’d appreciate it. I just want it all over with so I can put that chapter of my life behind me.”
“Do you have the title deed?” he asks.
I shake my head. “It’s at the house. I didn’t take anything but a bag of clothes when I ran.” Wanting to change the subject, I ask, “You don’t mention the mafia much. How are things on that front?”
“Good.” A smile tugs at his mouth. “I took care of the person who ordered the attack on us.”
My eyebrows lift. “You did? When?”
“Yesterday.”
“Did you…” I let the sentence trail away.
Franco’s eyes lock with mine. “Yes, I killed him.”
“Is it okay if I ask you about things like that?”
He nods. “Of course. I have nothing to hide from you, baby.”
I take a sip of my wine, then Franco points at my plate and orders, “You skipped lunch. Eat, baby.”
I take a few bites, then ask, “So what kind of mafia business do you do?”
“Counterfeit notes and transporting contraband goods.”
“Oh.” I tilt my head. “I expected something more…violent.”
He lets out a chuckle. “So me killing the head of the Slovak mafia isn’t violent enough for you?”
I shake my head. “I was talking about your illegal businesses.”
Franco changes the subject by saying, “I’ve noticed all your clothes are here. Does that mean you’ve moved in?”