Page 63 of Ruthless Scar
Good. Fine. I don’t need him to stay.
I press my face into the pillow. It smells like him. Sandalwood and soap and the ghost of sweat. I throw it across the room.
I roll over and my hip throbs. The bruise is already dark, four fingerprints pressed into the curve above the bone where he gripped me. I press my thumb into it. The ache blooms, sharp and warm, and my body remembers everything my brain is trying to delete.
I shower. Hot enough to scald the feeling off my skin. Dress in jeans and a sweatshirt two sizes too big. Pull my hair intoa knot that says I’m working, not that I spent three minutes wondering if he’d be at breakfast.
He’s not at breakfast. Rosa is.
“Morning, cher.” She’s at the stove, wooden spoon in constant motion. The kitchen smells like coffee and beignets and a warmth that belongs to people who live here by choice. “You look like you slept well.”
“I slept fine.”
“Mmhm.” She doesn’t turn around. “Fine enough that you’re wearing a crew neck in Louisiana in the summer.”
My hand goes to my throat. The skin is raw from stubble. I sit at the island before she can get a read on me.
“Coffee’s fresh.” She pours. Sets it down. Leans against the counter and studies me the way grandmothers study people who are lying. “You eating?”
“Not hungry.”
“That wasn’t a question, cher.” She slides a plate of beignets toward me. “Eat.”
“You and your grandson have the same communication style. Has anyone told you that?”
“My grandson learned from me.” She crosses her arms. “Eat.”
I eat a beignet. It’s perfect. Powdered sugar coating my fingers, dough soft inside. I hate that it’s perfect because I want to be angry at this family and their food keeps getting in the way.
“He left early.” Rosa’s voice is casual. Wiping the counter. Eyes on the tile. “Had business with Nico. The warehouse district.”
“I didn’t ask.”
“I know.” She wipes the same spot twice. “I’m telling you anyway.”
“Rosa.”
“He left your coffee on the desk before he went. Two sugars. Covered so it wouldn’t get cold.” Eyes still elsewhere. “That boy doesn’t remember his own birthday, but he remembers how you take your coffee.”
“Maybe he’s just observant.”
“He’s not observant. He can’t find matching socks. He remembersyourcoffee, Isabella. There’s a difference.“
“Thank you for the beignets.” I stand. Take my mug. “I have data to run.”
“Sure you are, cher.”
I pass Cassia in the hallway. Dante’s wife. Beautiful in the effortless way that makes you wonder if she was born with lip gloss and a balance sheet. She takes one look at my face and slows.
“Good morning.”
“Morning.”
“You okay?”
“I’m fine.” She studies me for a beat. The forensic accountant’s gaze, the one that probably found three discrepancies in my breathing alone. Then she smiles. Warm. Not prying. “If you ever want to talk, I make excellent coffee and I’m contractually obligated to keep secrets.”
“Noted.” I manage a smile back. “Thanks.”
