Page 38 of Vows of Betrayal

Francesca burst out of the bathroom and went straight to the kitchen.

“How's the sandwich?” she asked, washing her hands.

“Good, thanks,” I said as I chewed.

“Hang on, I forgot.” She opened the fridge and pulled out two bottles. One was mustard and one was mayo. She grabbed a plate from the cabinet and walked over to me. “Here, I like to add these. Makes it go down easier.” She gave me another—polite—smile and headed back to the kitchen.

I did what she suggested, and it actually helped to mask the weird taste. I ate and watched the show. But mostly, I watched Francesca in the kitchen. She was chopping something up and boiling something on the stove. It honestly smelled pretty horrible. Not that it mattered. If I could eat this pathetic sandwich, then I'd be able to scarf down whatever she was making.

Fifteen minutes later, she walked over with two bowls of salad. It looked all right. Mostly. The lettuce was limp and so were the cucumbers. But it smelled good. “The dressing is great. I promise, even though the veggies are a little sad.”

I took the bowl and said, “Thanks.” She set her bowl on the coffee table and walked back to the kitchen. She picked up two more bowls and brought them back with her. They were both steaming and smelled vaguely familiar. But I couldn't place it.

“Here, watch out. It's hot.”

I grabbed the bowl and what was inside made me chuckle. “I haven't had this in decades,” I said as I gazed into the bowl of orange macaroni and cut up hot dogs. I took the spoon and shoveled it into my mouth. “Christ, this brings back memories,” I laughed while I ate.

“Why?” she asked, already making a good dent in her bowl.

“Carlo used to make this for me and Nick at college. He brought in a hot plate and made us all kinds of—” I cleared my throat, “things.”

She peered at me and tilted her head in the cutest way. “Carlo cooks?”

I nodded and kept eating. “He's a great cook.” And he was. My brother had always been talented in the kitchen.

“What about you? Do you cook, too?” she asked, and it surprised me in a good way. Our conversations had been rather stilted the last few days. Thanks to me.

“I know my way around a kitchen, Chesca. When I can stand up longer than five seconds, I'll show you.”

She shrugged and looked at the TV. “You're leaving in a few days. There probably won't be time for that.”

Fuck.

Me.

Her words couldn't have hit any harder if she'd punched me directly in the gut. Yeah, she'd said I could stay a week. But I had no fucking intentions of leaving then.

Or ever.

Well, eventually I’d take her to my place. Once I was stronger and I could deal with her attitude.

I couldn't remember a time when a woman out and out defied me like she had. Thinking about other men's eyes on her gorgeous curves when she walked out of the house in just her thin pajamas was still driving me up the wall. And there was fuck all I could do about it.

“Why do you hate him so much?” she said, scooping another large spoonful of macaroni and hot dogs into her mouth.

“Hate who?” I asked, confused at the sudden topic change.

“Your brother,” she said, chewing.

My guts clenched, and I swallowed. “He took something that was mine,” I answered back, not elaborating about that. Because that was definitely not something Francesca ever needed to know about.

She frowned and turned to me. “What did he take?” Her voice was skeptical as she pursed her lips together.

I cleared my throat and took a sip of my water. “Something he shouldn't have taken.” I gave her another short response.

She raised her eyebrows and turned back to the TV. “Huh, he doesn't seem like the thief-type. Are you sure what he stole from you was really yours in the first place?” she asked, so carefree, as if Carlo stealing Giselle from me hadn't shattered me in every way possible. I didn't have an answer for her. And I knew she didn't understand the consequences of what she'd just said.

Her words echoed deep inside me.

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