Total pages in book: 145
Estimated words: 131455 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 657(@200wpm)___ 526(@250wpm)___ 438(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 131455 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 657(@200wpm)___ 526(@250wpm)___ 438(@300wpm)
“Now that you got off…” She's wearing a wicked grin when she unwinds her body from around mine. “Are you still sure about dinner?”
“Shit. I didn't know changing my mind was an option.” She swats at me and I laugh before we start to climb from the pool.
“It isn't.” She tosses me a towel before squeezing the water from her dark locks, then wraps a towel around her chest.
“I'm sure, and just so you know, this wasn't a ploy to get in your suit. I just love fucking you that much.”
“Good. I'm going to go give him a call.” The way she happily scampers into the house, her phone in hand, tells me I made the right decision. She already looks cheerier than I've seen her in days, maybe weeks. The strain of Charlie and me being at each other 's throats can't be easy for her to live with.
That's fine. Let him come to my house as a welcome guest. Let him see how civilized and generous the criminal he's hated for so long can be.
Once I'm dried off, I follow her inside, taking a bottle of water from the fridge. I'm sure Sheryl has the pantry more than stock, so there won't be any reason to go out for groceries unless Bianca's set on fixing something out of the ordinary. I can't imagine Charlie being too difficult to please. He doesn't strike me as the complicated type regarding food choices.
“Boss?” Romero leans into the room, looking around before finding me seated at the island. “I heard Bianca come in, so I figured you'd be around here somewhere.”
“Yes, she's inviting Charlie over for dinner tonight.”
“Dinner? Here?”
“That's the idea.”
“And you were okay with that?”
“I'm the one who suggested it.” I drink my water, savoring the cold that spreads through my chest almost as much as I savor Romero's shocked expression.
He manages to compose himself, clearing his throat. “Here's hoping he doesn't decide to continue what he started the last time he was here.”
“Don't remind me.”
When it appears like he wants to keep bringing up reasons this won't work, I shake my head before he can say another word. “Listen. If this is what it takes to make her happy, I'm willing to do it. You've seen how she's been ever since Ken was here. Now, she's smiling and seems to be more hopeful. If I have to grin and bear it through dinner with that asshole, so be it. It's worth it.”
“Fair enough.”
“Feel free to take the night off,” I add as an afterthought. “I've been working you like a dog lately.”
His arched eyebrow leaves me scowling.
“What?” I snap.
“I was just thinking to myself, what a shame you didn't find her sooner. With Bianca here, you're able to focus on more than work.”
“Yeah, that's a good thing. You might have time to develop a hobby or two.”
He doesn't see the humor in that—in fact, he scowls while his gaze drifts toward the empty patio. “I have a few things I'd like to take time for.”
Something about the way he said it strikes me as ominous. “Is there something we need to talk about?”
Before he can answer, Bianca pops into the room, one hand over her cell's speaker. “Is seven tonight okay?”
“That's fine.” She just about beams before turning away, murmuring into her cell.
Romero wears a faintly sarcastic grin as he backs away. “You are going to have your hands full tonight,” he reminds me, shaking his head. “No offense, but I wouldn't want to be in your shoes. Although I would definitely like to be a fly on the wall.”
BIANCA
“Where's the ricotta?” I could have sworn I pulled it out of the fridge while gathering the rest of the ingredients.
“Right here.” Callum slides the container my way. “How can I help?”
It's sort of adorable that he wants to help, so I don't want to turn him down. And with my nerves as fried as they are right now, I could use the help. If I'm not careful, I'll end up knocking the baking dish on the floor instead of putting it in the oven. The thought of tomato sauce splashing across the white tile and shiny stainless steel makes me wince—Sheryl would never forgive me if I didn't leave this kitchen looking better than she left it. I love her, and she seems to like me a lot, but there are lines you don't cross.
“Can you please crack two eggs and stir them into the ricotta?” I wish I had a written recipe, but Mom never worked that way. Everything she cooked, she eyeballed. A meal could taste totally different depending on her mood that day, but it was always delicious.
Noodles are boiling on the stove, along with marinara sauce Sheryl made a while back and had kept frozen. That's thawed now, bubbling slightly beside a pan of browned sausage. Everything's in place. So why am I so nervous?