Page 75 of The Woman in the Garage

When the water grew cool, I scrubbed myself fully clean, then rinsed off as the tub drained.

When I dried off and made my way into Santo’s bedroom, I found he’d laid out a roomy, well-loved, emerald green shirt as well as a pair of lightweight black sleep pants.

Just getting dressed seemed to zap all of the energy I had left, but I forced myself to make my way out of the bedroom instead of curling up on the bed like I really wanted to.

I paused at the top landing, though, when I heard not just Santo’s voice but some other man’s voice as well.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Santo

I needed to leave the bathroom to get some control back over myself. Because every part of me wanted to pull her out of that tub, take her down on the floor, and surge inside her. Or, hell, climb in there with her and let her ride me.

The last thing she needed was me and my selfish needs when she was trying to recover.

While none of her injuries seemed very serious, she had more scrapes, scratches, and bruises than I’d first realized. She had to be hurting all over and all at once.

She needed to take it easy.

Rest was the best way to heal.

Once she was feeling better, we could revisit the idea of having another encounter like in her office. But without having to worry about her being loud.

Until then, I had to deal.

And by ‘deal,’ I meant taking matters into my own hand in the bedroom where she couldn’t see and feel weird about it.

I stopped into the hall bath to clean myself up, then made my way downstairs, ready to clean up the wreck that was left overfrom the unfinished meal and order some food before Dasha came down.

Then nearly fucking came out of my skin when I walked into my kitchen to find a man sitting at my table.

“Jesus fucking Christ, Domenico.” My heart was punching against my ribcage, the adrenaline from earlier still coursing through me. “What the fuck are you doing here?”

“Was taking a walk. Smelled garlic and basil.” He shrugged as if that explained everything as I glanced over at his plate to find he had pasta piled high.

“Those were ruined noodles.”

“Taste fine.”

“Compared to prison food, maybe,” I agreed, going over to the pot to snatch one of the noodles. It broke in half and splashed back into the water.

“Bread is banging.”

Glancing over, I found half the tray of focaccia gone.

“You making brownies?” he asked, nodding toward the ingredients spread across the island.

“I was going to, yeah.”

“Like brownies.”

“Let me get this straight. You were taking a walk.”

“Yep.”

“Past my house?” To that, I got a shrug. “Why?”

“Getting a feel for everyone’s neighborhood. Been gone a long time.”

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