Page 10 of My Broken Bodyguard 3: Catch & Bianca

So many scenarios ran through my mind. What if one of these assholes tried to rob Catch?

“Are you ok?” he asked.

Keeping my gaze steady on the guys standing in the street off to the side, I held my breath. The last thing I wanted to do was shoot someone in broad daylight. Even worse put my family in jeopardy. After the heist, I’d devise a plan to take care of GT. I wondered if I should tell the girls.

“Yes, I’m fine, Catch. Not every day I go on a date with a man I loathe.”

He laughed, then continued bobbing his head to a 2 Chainz song.

“Bianca, I hope you like pasta because that’s what I’m cooking.”

“Don’t kill me with your meal?”

His brows lowered as he turned onto the main street leading to the playhouse.

Peering out the window, I exhaled. We were home free. For now.

“I can cook, Bianca,” he spat.

“Sure, you can, Catch.”

***P***

About seven minutes later, we sauntered into the playhouse. Catch insisted on checking out the house before he started cooking. What did he expect to find? I detoured to the liquor station that was set up in the dining room. I poured a double shot of vodka into a red solo cup.

I brought the bottle of Grey Goose into the kitchen with me. The second my ass hit one of the kitchen chairs, I sat my drinks on the table before I unpacked my laptop.

Catch entered the dim kitchen, then flipped on the light before heading for the sink. He lathered his hands with soap, then rinsed them in the stream of water.

“Are you cooking lasagna?” I asked.

He dried his hands with a paper towel, laughing. “Anyone can make lasagna. I’m cooking something a little more elegant. Chicken marsala pasta.”

My brows rose as my tongue slicked over my lower lip. “Sounds delicious. If you burn it, I’m not eating it.”

“Burn it?” he questioned, like I insulted him.

Still staring at me, he went on a rant. “It will be delicious,” Catch stated with confidence.

He shook his head. “Burn the food,” he said in a sarcastic tone, like he just couldn’t believe I said those words.

“Why would I volunteer to cook if I’d burn the meal?”

“You know what? Bianca, I’m not worried. You’ll love it.” He removed all the groceries from the bags he sat on the counter when we first arrived.

“Let’s get to know each other. We can start by pointing out I don’t drink vodka that often. I’m a scotch guy. However, tonight I’ll take a cup of vodka neat.”

“Sure thing.” I prepared his drink using the extra solo cup mine rested in.

“Not sure why we should bother. We aren’t really in a relationship, Catch.”

He turned on the flame and placed a large skillet on the iron.

“We are in a real relationship, Bianca,” he snarled.

“Fine, if that’s what you want to believe, what choice do I have? I needed Lendel to back off, and you were there.”

He slid a knife through the freshly washed plump chicken breasts that rested on a glass cutting board.

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