Page 70 of Love Him Like Water

“I don’t want you to have to do it. I was going to order.”

“It’s not any trouble,” he insisted with that raised chin that all of these mafia guys used to assert that they were going to be stubborn about something.

Feeling bad about it, I handed over my long list to him.

And an hour after he was off his shift, there was a knock, and a ton of groceries waiting for me.

“Thank you so much,” I said, giving him a big smile.

“Don’t mention it. And I may have… suggested to your husband that he might want to be home before morning tonight,” he added, handing me the bags, then turning to leave.

So then, I set my plan in motion.

To make my husband dinner.

Where I hoped we could actually sit and have a conversation, get to know each other. With our clothes on.

I didn’t cook often, much to the chagrin of my family, who claimed I was the best at it. Cooking kind of reminded me a lot of my mom, of those long afternoons and evenings in the kitchen, learning at her apron strings how to make all the recipes that went back generations in her family.

After her death, cooking usually filled me with a sense of grief and longing so thick you could slice it. And I didn’t like serving up my grief on a platter.

So I just… chose not to do it.

Tonight was different, though.

Tonight, I wanted to show off in front of my husband.

I wanted to watch him dig into a meal I’d painstakingly cooked.

I wanted to watch him enjoy it.

And maybe be pleased with it enough to actually… you know… come home for dinner sometimes.

With the food cooking, I set the table, pulling out the candleholders and pillars I’d asked Elian to pick up as well, before dressing myself in the nicest thing I’d brought with me from home—the simple black dress I bought to use for any ‘formal’ family gathering.

I never liked dressing up, always feeling that “nice” women’s clothing showed off too much—too much leg, back, or chest. Or it clung to every inch of the body, leaving nothing to the imagination.

And I just… never wanted to draw attention to myself, to be looked at that way. So I avoided it at all costs.

Now, though, for Renzo? A man who seemed to worship every inch of me, I was suddenly okay with it.

I slipped on the dress, then went back downstairs to finish cooking.

Then waited.

And waited.

And, you guessed it, waited.

Sometime much later, I heard voices in the hallway.

Several.

Too many to just be Renzo talking to the guard.

He was having people over.

Again.

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