Page 21 of Reckless Love

“Do you want to eat spaghetti with us?” Landon asks.

Rather than shutting Landon down, I leave the offer sitting between us. The three of us sitting at the table eating dinner sounds kind of nice, the sort of domesticated bliss that I never thought I’d crave.

“I’m eating with my parents tonight,” Stephen says. “Maybe another time.”

“How are they?” I ask.

“Same as always,” Stephen says, fluffing me off.

We get through the crowd and to the front door, the gates closing behind us.

“Stay here,” Stephen says, meeting my gaze in the mirror. “I’m checking the cameras for any trespassers before we go in.”

Datu turns in his seat and starts asking Landon questions about school while we wait for Stephen to come back.

A while later, the door beside me opens, and Stephen ducks down, ignoring me and addressing Landon. “Let’s get you fed, buddy.”

“No problems?” I ask, climbing out after Landon scrambles across me and into Stephen’s arms.

“All clear,” Stephen says, turning Landon upside down to his delighted squeals.

“Again! Again!” Landon calls out when Stephen rights him.

Leaving them in the front foyer, I head to the kitchen, getting the spaghetti out of the freezer and turning on the oven. Our chef does more of a spaghetti bake rather than a traditional spaghetti and meatballs, but Landon loves this version best.

He comes racing into the kitchen just as I’m sliding the container into the oven.

“Garlic bread, Mom?” he asks.

I purse my lips and scan the counter. We have some fresh bread, and I’m sure the chef has a garlic spread in the fridge. Searching through the shelves, I find what I’m looking for, and then I get out a cutting board to slice the French bread our chef sometimes makes at the start of a week. It’s crusty, and the outside is a bit slick from whatever coating the chef uses.

The bread knife is nowhere to be found, so I grab one of the smooth knives and start trying to cut through the thick bread.

“Mom, look!” Landon cries from the living room.

I glance up to see him doing a flip on the couch, and the knife slips. A sharp pain streaks through my fingers, and I give an involuntary cry.

“What happen?” Landon asks, running over to me.

“I cut myself,” I say, holding up my two bleeding fingers.

“Oh no!” Landon runs toward the front foyer. “Stephen, come quick. Mommy’s hurt.”

“It’s—” But the rest of my sentence dies on my lips as Stephen beats Landon back to the kitchen, his suit jacket flapping behind him like a cape.

“You’re hurt?” Stephen’s brow is furrowed when he reaches the island and sees the blood on the counter. “You cut yourself?”

“Stupid,” I say. “I was slicing bread with the wrong knife.”

He takes my small hand in his big one and turns it over, examining the cuts. My breath gets stuck in my throat at the tender way he’s holding my palm. Our chef keeps our knives very sharp, and the cuts are deeper than I would have thought for such a quick mistake.

“Does Mommy need a Band-Aid?” Landon asks from behind Stephen.

“Can you get the first aid kit from the front foyer, bud? It’s in the cabinet by the door.” Stephen reaches behind him and grabs some paper towel, pressing it gently against my cuts.

Landon races off at top speed.

This close, Stephen’s oaky scent invades my senses, and I close my eyes, trying to breathe him in without being obvious. Having his bulky, overpowering manliness this close already makes the sting of my cuts less than it was a minute ago. Being hovered over by him makes me feel tiny and delicate, which isn’t a familiar sensation anymore, but my body remembers it, wants to respond to it, turn toward him.