Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 92873 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 464(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 310(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92873 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 464(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 310(@300wpm)
He pauses on the threshold, watching me with an intense but unreadable expression before entering the room.
Sophie clutches my T-shirt and peeks out from behind my back. My husband cuts his gaze in the direction of the movement, and then he freezes. His black eyes flare. His lips part, but no sound escapes. No one speaks as he stares at the child who fists her tiny hands so tightly in my T-shirt that she’s stretching it over my stomach. Beatrice’s stick arms press into my hip. It takes a long moment before Angelo finally tears his gaze away from the small person hiding behind me and lifts his eyes to mine.
His voice is gruff. “What is the kid doing here?”
Sophie wrings my T-shirt to the point of tearing it.
“She has a name,” I chastise. “It’s Sophie.” I reach behind me to hug her waist.
“Sophie,” he parrots, a frown pleating his brow.
Searching his eyes, I ask an unspoken question. “Your niece.”
“Yes.” He glances at her again. “How did she end up here?”
Rubbing a hand over Sophie’s back, I say, “We need to talk.”
His eyes tighten before the creases in the corners even out with understanding. Nodding toward the lounge, he says, “In here.”
“Upstairs.”
The line of his jaw hardens at my blunt contradiction of his order.
Ignoring him, I turn to Sophie and go down on my haunches. “Mr. Russo and I have to discuss something upstairs.”
“Why?” she croaks.
“Sometimes, adults need to talk in privacy. You and Beatrice can wait in the lounge. Did you finish the movie yesterday?”
She shakes her head.
“Why don’t you show Beatrice the end of Toy Story?”
She sticks her head around me, scrutinizing Angelo before averting her eyes. “Is he going to stay like the other man?”
Something like a growl rumbles in Angelo’s chest.
“Fabien?” I say. “He only stayed for a short while.”
“Beatrice doesn’t like Mr. Russo. Is he staying for a short while too?”
I steal a look over my shoulder at my husband who stands with clenched fists near the door, for the first time since I’ve met him appearing out of his depth.
“We’ll see,” I say, turning back to Sophie with a smile. “This is Mr. Russo’s house, so he may decide to stay. Or he may not if he’s busy.”
Behind me, Angelo utters a cuss word under his breath.
I shoot him a frown.
“Can we have popcorn?” Sophie asks.
“Sure.” I straighten. “Make yourself and Beatrice comfortable on the sofa under the blanket, and I’ll make the popcorn.”
Sophie sticks her finger in her mouth and keeps her head low as she skitters around Angelo and darts to the lounge.
Crossing his arms, he widens his stance and studies me while I put a bag of popcorn in the microwave. I feel his gaze burning on my back as I set the timer and push the start button.
“The popcorn and the movie,” he says. “It was her.”
I take a bowl from the cupboard. “Yes.”
“She was here.”
“Yes,” I say again, keeping my voice down.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asks in a strained voice.
I give him a hard look. “I would’ve if you’d given me the chance.”
He props his hands on his hips. The action pushes the ends of his jacket open, revealing the hardness of his stomach his sweater doesn’t hide and lean hips hugged by his jeans. “You could’ve tried harder.”
“Really? When?” I drop my voice to a whisper. “When you left me half-naked here in the kitchen?”
The muscles in his jaw bunch. “When did this happen? How?”
“Upstairs,” I say again, taking the popcorn from the microwave.
Angelo steps up and stops so close behind me the heat of his skin sears me through my clothes.
Reaching around me, he takes the box. “Careful. It’s hot.”
I scoff. “I know how to make popcorn.”
He pulls the edges of the box apart, letting out a billow of steam. I watch, curious about what he’s going to do, as he empties the box in the bowl. He picks up the bowl and takes a bottle of water from the fridge before making his way to the door.
“What?” he says when I don’t follow. “Aren’t we going upstairs?”
Ignoring the jibe, I walk ahead of him, wanting to make sure he doesn’t frighten Sophie. I know he won’t harm her, but he can be brusque. As charming as he can be, he sometimes has the finesse of an ogre.
Sophie sits on the sofa with Beatrice clutched on her lap, staring at Mr. Potato Head who lifts his eyes from his face to scout through the window. Her small feet clad in my too-big socks are turned inward, her tiny body drowning in my clothes. A rush of tenderness overwhelms me. I can’t even begin to think about the hardships she’s been through, that she’s still going through.
Angelo crouches down in front of her, blocking her view of the television. She leans to the side, trying to see around him. At least she’s not acting afraid of him.