The Woman in Harm’s Way (Grassi Family #5) Read Online Jessica Gadziala

Categories Genre: Action, Contemporary, Mafia, Suspense Tags Authors: Series: Grassi Family Series by Jessica Gadziala
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Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 75683 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 378(@200wpm)___ 303(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
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“He thinks he owes me,” I told her. “For saving his life.”

“Saving his life?” she asked, brows pinching.

“I, uhm, I pushed him down when I saw the gun. Just… pure instinct, honestly,” I said.

“You’ve always had such a protective nature,” she said, giving my foot a squeeze through the blankets as she set her bags and pastry box down. “You might very well have saved him, my darling girl. Is it so bad to have a handsome man feel indebted to you?” she asked, running her hand along the blanket. “Especially one with such good taste?”

“Mother!” I said, half laughing at her. “Aren’t you the one who raised me never to rely on a man?”

“Rely on, Savannah. I don’t believe it is ever good for a woman to rely completely on a man, with their… wandering whims. But that doesn’t mean you can’t enjoy being pampered by one now and again. Don’t you remember those emerald earrings you liked to steal as a teenager?”

“Those were from a man?” I asked. But, of course they were. My mother had provided for us. We never went hungry or naked. We didn’t struggle. But we certainly never had ‘emerald earring money.’

“Of course. I have a lovely jewelry collection thanks to some of the men I have known. Remember when we stayed in Ohio for a few weeks?”

Stayed in was a nice way of saying we were stranded because our camper van had broken down, and my mom needed to work for a bit to save up to repair it.

“Let me guess, you dated a mechanic.”

“Well, I dated a man. Who happened to be a mechanic. I didn’t sleep with him for repairs,” she added with a smile. “While I am obviously an advocate for sex work, that was never my profession.”

My mom was nothing if not an advocate for all consensual sex. Even if money was being exchanged.

The world as we know it would not exist if it were not for sex work, she’d once explained. And after doing a little research, she’d absolutely been right.

And I had to admit that growing up with a mother that treated sex as a normal and natural progression into adulthood had given me a much healthier mindset around it than many of the girls I knew who had so much shame associated with their needs and desires.

“He also gave me a foot rub,” I confided in my mom who gave me a knowing smile.

“Did he? That sounds like a keeper. I’ve been dying for a foot rub since we opened the restaurant.”

“I know. I had aches I didn’t know existed until he worked them out,” I told her. “He brought me socks, and when he realized my feet were cold, he chafed them, then rubbed them.”

“I bet that had a better kick than those pain meds they are giving you,” she said.

“Absolutely,” I agreed. “For a moment, I forgot that I’d been shot.”

“And maybe considered the pros and cons of a hospital room quickie?” she asked with a little musical laugh.

While we didn’t share ridiculously intimate parts of our sex lives, we did discuss it on occasion. For example, I knew it had been almost a year for her. The longest she’d ever gone. And that she swore her complexion was suffering from the lack.

It had been about the same amount of time for me as well, but the only noticeable difference I’d found was this strange craving to feel a man’s weight on me. Not even the sex itself, just the weight.

We’d let work consume our lives.

“We need to find more life balance,” my mom declared, practically reading my mind.

“I know,” I agreed, exhaling a bit. “Nothing like a little near-death experience to remind us that there is more than work.”

To be fair, though, we both did do other things. We gardened. She did yoga and pilates. We both liked long walks on the beach and doing home projects. Especially since neither of us had really had places of our own for any length of time before.

But we needed to put more time into making connections, finding friends, taking classes, and, yes, dating. Or, at the very least, breaking our dry spells.

“Does Nino plan to visit again?” she asked.

“Mother…” I said, a little warning in my voice.

“Oh, come on, I just want to meet him!”

“And tell him about painting vulvas on the wall?” I asked, small-eyeing her.

“Don’t be silly, darling. I’m saving that for my speech at your wedding,” she teased.

“He asked if he can visit tomorrow,” I told her. “So what did you bring me?”

“I got you your e-reader,” she said, putting it down on the nightstand, then plugging in the charger for me. “And I also brought some of your hand cream and chapstick you had next to the bed. The air is so dry here. And, of course,” she said, reaching for the pastry box. “Food. And now that you have this delicious bouquet,” she said, plucking off a grape and popping it into her mouth, “we don’t have to feel guilty about having danishes for a meal.”



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