Page 80 of Be With Me
“Uh-huh,” she said, sounding skeptical. She didn’t believe me. But I’d prove her wrong. Even sooner than she expected it.
She picked up the next pair of tongs and reached for a bread roll. Some genius decided to stack them in a precarious tower that wobbled when Mia picked one up.
Her mouth popped open. “Oh no. Ohshoot.”
Oh shoot.Why was it so fucking cute when she said that?
She frantically tried to stabilize the rolls with her tongs, but they tilted even more, so I grabbed another pair and helped her.
She blew out a breath. “Thanks.” Then she glanced at me, her gaze dipping to my mouth. “Why are you smiling?”
I sighed. “It happens when I look at you. Can’t explain it. Maybe you have a theory?” I didn’t mention the weird warmth in my chest that she also brought on since the night of the storm.
Actually, I did have a theory. That night, she’d taken care of me, held me, helped me. No woman had ever done that for me before. She’d rewired something fundamental inside me, some critical connection in my brain.
The long-term effects were still unclear.
Her throat moved as she swallowed. She stared at her plate, brows pulling together, teeth grazing her lip like she suddenly had a lot on her mind. Then, after a beat, she straightened.
“We said goodbye to each other on Tuesday,” she said quietly. There was no anger left in her tone, just resignation. “We both agreed that we shouldn't be in contact. Nothing has changed, except for this unfortunate coincidence with the invite. Let’s just get through tonight and move on.”
My mood sobered. She was right. Nothing had changed.
She was still Morales’s daughter. I was still a Ferraro. If I wasn’t going to use her for information, then I had no business left with her.
I cleared my throat, feigning indifference. “Fine by me.”
She grabbed a small glass of chilled soup, struggling to balance it in her hands along with her plate and her purse.
I thought about the object in my pocket, the one I’d planned to give to her today. “I’ll help you. Give me your purse.”
“No, Rom?—“
“I’ll walk you to your table, and then I’ll leave you alone for the rest of the night.”
“All right,” she muttered. “Thank you.”
I took her purse and followed behind her. As we passed my table, I dropped off my plate, freeing one hand.
Discreetly, I reached into my pocket and slipped the damned thing into the small side pocket of her bag.
A moment later, we reached her table. She placed her plate down by the name tag spelling out Mia Morales in elegant cursive, then turned back, hand outstretched for her purse.
Our fingers brushed as I passed it back.
“Thank you again,” she said, meeting my gaze.
I nodded. “My pleasure.”
The other people at her table were watching us curiously. They all knew who I was. Who she was.
They were probably wondering what the hell we’d been talking about.
Mia, the picture of composure, gave me a polite smile. “Enjoy your evening.”
I returned the expression. “You too.” Then I walked back to my seat and sat down.
We didn’t speak for the rest of the evening.
