Page 43 of Beacon

“You want me to keep an eye on Matthias and Nate?” I ask.

“Yeah. I know you’re protective of them, and of their privacy, but in case you see something strange, at least you know what I’ve found out about the elusive Nate Williams.”

I’m unsure what to do with this information but as I’ve said since working for Matthias and the rest of the boys, no one messes with them but me.

“I’ll keep my eyes trained on him; you’ve got my word.”

We finish with some pleasantries, and then I’m gone, but not without being concerned for Matthias and what this could mean to our business.

“They have the best fruit here,”I explain, Dom holding my hand as I maneuver Otis through the streets of Chicago.

“I’ve got to ask you, Rosso. What is up with all the fruit? I swear, if I didn’t cook for you, you’d only eat fruit.”

The best farmers market is close to a mile walk from my apartment. Dom has occupied many of my weekends, and kept me up late at night worshiping my body, and I’ve been skipping the best Saturday market in the city.

“I don’t eat just fruit. I love pasta and bread—a reason I run in the mornings on a treadmill in the residents’ gym, though someone has made getting out of bed earlier a little harder.”

He leans down, whispering into my ear. “Don’t blame me for all your bad habits, baby.”

“Oh, they weren’t bad habits until I met you,” I quip back. “Anyway, I’m not a huge meat person. I love steak, but the texture of chicken is weird for me, unless I can drown it with a strong taste. It’s why I like chicken Marsala.”

“Or wine in general?” he asks.

“And we’re back to fruit,” I answer.

“You got me there. What about vegetables?”

“I love some vegetables. I have a sweet tooth, and I don’t eat sweets, except for cookies, which I don’t keep in my house. And for the sake of my figure, I stick with fruits.”

Dom has made filling my fridge with a variety of options his purpose in life, besides sharing his kinks with me.

“Tonight, I plan on making a veggie pasta, with a brown butter garlic wine sauce. So, there is some variety for you,” I tease, pulling him close to me. I push up on my tiptoes and kiss his cheek.

“And now we’re back to wine, yet again,” he quips.

“Wine is the fruit of life, Mr. Torano, you should know that with your Italian roots and all.”

“Oh, believe me, I’ll be sure to show you my very impressive Italian roots later.” He arches his eyebrows and I laugh at his comeback. This is all so easy with Dom.

We turn the corner to the market, and Otis begins to bark. So many smells for the dog all at one time.

“He must be in heaven. How many treats does he get from the vendors?” he asks.

I point to Otis’s squished up face. “With that face, a fuck ton. But the mile walk home will keep him the compact pug he is.”

It’s a joke we have, since the day I told him about Otis and how he’s compact. He’s made of solid muscle, and he’s smaller than most pugs, but his body is deceiving because he doesn’t look like he’s close to twenty pounds, and with Dom around, I’mpositive my dog has gained weight. Dom is convinced he can buy his love, and with Otis, he may be right.

“Speaking of the fruit of life.” I point to one of the most popular booths of the market. It’s the wine-tasting booth, but they give you a whole glass—at a premium cost. And Dom doesn’t disappoint, as he orders us two glasses of a Merlot blend. He had me at Merlot, and as we move from booth to booth, on the hunt for some sort of protein I’d agree to try, the simplicity of our day makes me smile. We are at the market for well over three hours, having bought more fruit, more plants for my apartment, peppers, mushrooms, and tomatoes for our dinner tonight.

“See, we didn’t need any protein after all,” I say, leaving the market with a tired pug that Dom ends up picking up to carry home.

“I have all the meat you need, baby.”

I try to adopt a serious expression, because why encourage the man child, but I can’t, and he takes my arm, walking back home, hand in hand. And this is everything I’ve been missing in my life.Heis who I’ve been missing in my life.

fifteen

SANDRA

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