Page 73 of Ruthless Daddy
He looked at the title, smiled. “I have not read this in fifteen years. University, maybe.”
“Time to brush up,” I said.
He tucked a piece of my hair behind my ear. “You look so beautiful, Angela.” He said it like it was obvious.
I wanted to say something smart back, but I couldn’t. My throat went tight.
He bought the book at the register. The woman didn’t bother with a bag, just handed it over and scratched the cat behind the ears. The cat stared at us, yellow eyes unblinking.
Pietro said, “Wait here a second,” and slipped back into the stacks.
I stood by the window, watching the street. The sky had changed, the afternoon gone gold at the edges, buildings across the street turning pink. For a minute I imagined what it would be like to just do this every day—pick a book, walk home, read on the couch, never have to run again.
He returned with something behind his back. I arched an eyebrow. “Did you get me a present?”
He brought it out: a small leather notebook, black, unlined, the kind of thing you carried everywhere and filled up too fast. He handed it to me. “For the work you’re doing,” he said. “For the patterns. For the lighthouse.”
I held it in my hands. It was soft, the cover thin, pliable, like it had already been worn in. I flipped it open. The blank pages stared at me.
“Thank you,” I said. It wasn’t enough, but I meant it.
He watched my face for a long second, then leaned in and kissed my forehead, slow, right in front of the cat and the crossword lady and the empty shop. I felt it all the way through my skull.
He put his hand at the small of my back and we walked out into the last bit of daylight.
I tucked the notebook into my coat. The cold didn’t bother me this time.
We walked toward the car together, not touching but always close. My shadow fell over his, long and dark and perfectly aligned.
The city was going pink, and I was going home.
The walk from the car to the apartment was quiet. Not tense—just full, like all the talking had already been done. The elevator creaked on the way up. I stood next to him, the coat half-unbuttoned, the collar turned up, his hand on my elbow, like I might tip over and break.
Inside, the lights were low. He hung up our coats, brushed the back of his hand down my spine before letting go. I walked into the kitchen, put the notebook on the table, and flipped it open to the first blank page.
He came in a minute later with two mugs of tea, set one down in front of me. He poured milk into mine before asking, remembered from days ago, from before. It was the kind of thing that made my chest hurt.
I traced the pen over the edge of the paper, then wrote: Today, I was not afraid.
He watched me from the doorway, arms crossed. I could feel his eyes, the way they moved over me, over the room, over thenotebook. He was cataloguing something, or maybe he was just memorizing me, the way I did him.
I said, “Will you stay with me tonight?”
It was not the way I’d asked before. Not a safety check, not a logistical question. It was a plea. I meant it.
He looked at me, for a long time. Then he crossed the kitchen, pulled out the chair across from mine, sat down. He reached over the table and took my hand.
“Yes,” he said, voice rougher than I’d heard it. He squeezed my hand, thumb on the inside of my wrist, where the pulse is strong and easy to find. “I will stay with you tonight.”
Chapter 13
Pietro
Ididn’tletgoofher hand, not even when the silence stretched for longer than was strictly polite. Her skin was warm, and the blood pulsed under it, strong and fast. Her pulse. I watched it beat there, at the inside of her wrist, watched the way the vein flashed blue and then disappeared again. I thought: I want to leave a mark there. I want her to remember this.
She watched my face, searching it for something. I think she saw it, because she didn’t smile, didn’t joke, just squeezed my hand tighter and then let her fingers go loose, surrendering the whole weight of her wrist to me. If she knew what it did to me, she’d have been cruel to keep it up, but she just waited.
I stood, slow, letting her hand slide up until our arms were straight, and only then did I pull her up to stand with me. I heard the scrape of her chair, the shuffle of her socks on the tile. I drew her a step closer so we stood almost touching, close enough that the air between us felt different, charged.
