Page 31 of Guarded from Sabotage

Since I’m not really hungry—being arrested after police storm your apartment is a pretty efficient appetite killer—I just say, “Anything you want to make is fine.”

But when I come into the kitchen after my shower, the delicious aroma of cheese and garlic and a hint of white wine makes my appetite come alive again.

I’m already feeling significantly better now that I’m clean; the faint stink of perspiration and fear replaced by the fresh scent of Dante’s soap. Like he said, his Army sweatshirt is like a dress on me, but wearing it feels like a cozy and comforting blanket. The shorts are laughably big, even with the waistband rolled up, and as Dante looks up from the stove as I enter the room, I’m expecting him to burst into laughter.

Instead, he freezes mid-stir and looks at me with an intensity I haven’t seen before.

Lightly, I say, “You were right. It is like a dress. But I love this sweatshirt. It’s so warm and soft. It’s like wearing a blanket.”

As I walk towards Dante, he swallows hard. His gaze is still glued to me. “You look—” Another swallow. “Really…”

“Silly?”

“No.”

“Should I change? Do I look ridiculous?”

“No.” He sets the spoon down and lowers the heat on the stove. “You look… beautiful.”

My cheeks warm. “Like this?”

“Yes.” His face is like a statue’s, all strong lines and angles. “Just like this. Comfortable. Your hair”—he touches a strand of my still damp hair—“looks like burnished bronze. And your cheeks are all pink. And wearing my sweatshirt…”

He pauses. “Maybe I shouldn’t say it. But you do. And you can wear my sweatshirt any time you want.”

“Any time?” My mouth curves into a smile; the first one I’ve had all day. “What if I want to wear it every day?”

He doesn’t hesitate. “Then you can have it. If you like it, it’s yours.”

Our gazes meet, and there’s something in his eyes that makes my heart flutter. My chest goes tight, but it’s not from fear or anxiety.

It’s hope.

But what if I’m wrong? What if I’m making more of this than it is?

What if that logical part of my brain is right, and this is just Dante being friendly?

Although. Would he tell his friends they’re beautiful? Would he look at them with the same intensity as he’s looking at me?

Flustered, I glance around the kitchen, noticing the fettucini Alfredo Dante’s making—which looks and smells incredible—the dishes that are neatly washed and set in the drain by the sink, and finally, a shimmery pink gift bag on the kitchen island.

Jealousy flares, hot and sudden.

That’s a gift for a woman.

Maybe he has a girlfriend. He’s never mentioned one, but that doesn’t mean he’s not dating.

It shouldn’t matter.

Dante follows my gaze, and he actuallyblushes.

“It’s for you,” he says. “I was going to give it to you tomorrow. When I came over. If you want it now… Although, after today, you might not be in the mood for a gift. It can wait.”

A present? For me?

All the crappy parts of the day fade away, replaced by joy fizzing up inside me.

“What if I don’t want to wait? Can I have it now?”

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