Page 41 of Mistletoe in the Mafia

“Hey, Flowers,” he greets.

My gaze slides over him. He’s wearing black joggers and a white tank top. His toned arms are in full display. I suck in a sharp breath.

Yeah, this was definitely a mistake.

“Hey,” I murmur, crossing over to meet him.

I take off my jacket, trying not to get too distracted by the memories of what happened in the spot not even three feet away from me. I’m rattled. And I know for a fact that he can tell.

“How was work today?”

“Quiet,” I mutter, sitting on the couch across from him. “How are you feeling? You know, since you’re apparentlysick.” I make sure to put air quotes around the word with my fingers.

He smiles. “I’m feeling quite well, thank you.”

“I can’t figure you out,” I admit. “On one hand I think you’re not taking the job seriously and you’re only working for nefarious intentions. But then I think about how you solved the case about the missing kids and I don’t know what to think anymore.”

His eyebrow arches. “Nefarious intentions, you say.”

“Yeah, and they most certainly involve me.”

“The world doesn’t revolve around you, Madelyn.”

He yawns before shutting his eyes briefly. He lifts the back of his hand to rest against his forehead, discomfort coloring his expression for a moment.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” I ask him.

“Fine. Just tired,” he mumbles.

I slowly rise to my feet and crouch beside him on the couch. I inhale softly as I press my hand against his cheek. And then I gasp.

“What the fuck, Dominic? You’re burning up. You’re actually sick?”

I can’t believe he didn’t tell me. I stand up, ready to hunt down a towel and some cold water. Or anything to bring his fever down. But he stops me by grabbing my wrist. I still, staring down at the point of contact before looking at his face. His eyes are still closed.

“I’ll be fine,” he says lowly.

“You don’t look fine,” I grit out. “Have you at least eaten?”

“Why? You going to cook for me?”

“Of course not. I don’t actually want you to die.”

He chuckles. It’s a nice sound coming from him, and odd in the sense that I rarely get to hear it.

“I already had dinner. And I made you some as well. Just head into the kitchen and warm it up. Alright?”

I pause, unsure of what to say in response to that.

“You don’t get to take care of me when you’re sick.”

“I have to take care of you, Madelyn,” he murmurs.

What does that even mean? I lean down so I can hear him better. He looks right on the edge of unconsciousness.

“Are you really sure you’re okay?”

“I’ll be fine. I already took some pills. This happens sometimes. My body just crashes. Then it sets right again after a couple of hours.”

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