Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 77579 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 388(@200wpm)___ 310(@250wpm)___ 259(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77579 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 388(@200wpm)___ 310(@250wpm)___ 259(@300wpm)
CHAPTER TWENTY
Halle - 3 days
It was surprisingly easy.
Living with him.
Being with him.
I guess an argument could be made for the fact that I’d already been casually living with him before we became an item.
But we fell into a sort of routine. Waking up in the middle of the night, or very early morning, rolling around in the sheets, passing back out, then waking up and having coffee and breakfast in the morning before we both headed off to work.
My grandfather was officially in the step-down facility, and there was a clock on him coming home. I knew that meant he would want to be back at the shop, so I was working overtime to try to not only get the shop in the best possible shape, but also setting up the website, and having Cosimo’s guys set up a real security system, and better locks.
Miko even made sure the bathroom door was unstuck.
Things were moving.
And then, magic.
Someone came into the shop right before closing with a box full of old junk they said they’d cleaned out of their grandparents’ apartment after they passed. They didn’t even want to wait for me to appraise and pay them for any of it. They just wanted it gone.
And at the bottom of that box?
Not one, but two carved and painted Greater Yellowlegs duck decoys.
I only knew that because I’d been so fascinated at the idea that duck decoys could be worth a lot of money, so I’d done a deep dive in research.
These birds?
These were incredibly rare.
The last time one was sold was almost two decades ago.
And it sold for seventy-five grand.
For one.
Any guilt I felt about the shop being closed for a few days was gone as I staged the item up on a display I’d set up for the sole purpose of taking pictures, and snapped several to put up on the website.
“Want me to take all that out to the dumpster?” Miko asked, waving toward the ducks and the rest of the box. There were some antiques inside, but nothing else anywhere near as valuable.
“This is not garbage,” I told him, waving the ducks. “This is as good as a lottery ticket.
“Yeah? I’ll never understand this shit,” he admitted, shaking his head.
“It’s fascinating when you really get into it,” I insisted, taking the ducks back to the safe in the back, just in case.
“You ready to head home?” he asked.
Home.
God, I liked the sound of that.
It was starting to feel that way, too.
What with my new clothes in his closet, my toothbrush in his drawer, my books on the coffee table.
For a man who’d admitted to me that he’d never had a woman even in his penthouse before, let alone moving in, he’d been really easy going about the kinds of things that had given previous boyfriends panic attacks. Like sharing his dresser and closet. Like having my tampons under the sink. Like changing his schedule to spend more time with me.
Maybe it was just easier when something inside said you’d found the right person.
Was it possibly insane that my right person was a member of the mafia? Yeah, kind of. But I couldn’t deny the way my heart felt like it swelled when Cosimo was nearby.
“Yeah. I want to stop at the grocery store first, though. I’m making dinner tonight,” I declared.
I couldn’t explain the urge to cook for him, especially given that it wasn’t something I particularly enjoyed or had any major skills with.
I think it was some form of nesting.
A few hours later, Cosimo was home, uncorking a bottle of wine, then sitting down at the table.
I put some food on his plate, watching as he grabbed his fork, scooped some up, and put it into his mouth.
His face was unreadable as he chewed.
Then, out of nowhere, he reached for my hand, pulling me closer as he burst out laughing.
“Oh, baby,” he said, pulling me onto his lap. “Love that you want to cook for me, but I think we are going to have to agree that this just isn’t your forte,” he said, scooping more up, and holding the fork up to my lips.
I almost didn’t want to try it myself, given his reaction. But, I reminded myself, he was used to all the women in his family. They probably all cooked gourmet Italian. Not my best attempt at some classic Americana. So it was probably fine by normal tastebud standards.
Or that was what I thought until my lips parted, and I got to taste the meal I’d been working on for hours.
Yeah, it was not good.
Not only was it not good, but it was disgusting.
“Oh, God,” I grimaced, swallowing it down just to get it out of my mouth.
“It’s okay,” he said, smile suddenly a little devilish. “I know what I want to eat for dinner,” he told me as he moved his place setting out of the way, grabbed me, and laid me back against the table.