Page 50 of Vows of Betrayal

Francesca smiled up at me as we danced in the garden outside my house in Italy. Flowers bloomed everywhere around us, emitting the most delicious scents. But not better than how Francesca smelled. I inhaled her scent deeply into my nose, knowing I'd never forget it.

Not that I'd need to. She was mine.

Forever.

My ring was finally on her finger.

And my baby in her belly.

We didn't have a care in the world.

Life.

Was.

Perfect.

“Crap,” I heard her mutter, and suddenly—she disappeared.

I sucked in a shocked breath and opened my eyes.

Fuck.

It had all been a dream. I lifted my head from her pillow and spotted her on the couch. “What's wrong?” I said groggily while I yawned. My eyes watered and I blinked quickly as I yawned ferociously again.

Francesca turned her head toward me. “Sorry, I didn't mean to wake you,” she said and gazed over at me. “How are you feeling?”

I did a mental assessment of my body parts. And surprisingly, I didn't feel like shit.

“Good. I'd be better if you came over here and gave me a kiss, though.” I stretched and rolled onto my back. Then I quickly realized I was sporting morning wood. I reached under the covers and adjusted myself.

“I'll make you some breakfast,” she said and rose from the couch. I watched her fantastic ass as she swayed to the tiny kitchen.

My eyes fell to the makeshift coffee table. She'd been doing a puzzle. A large one from the look of it. I squinted and said, “You're missing a few pieces.” I pointed at the puzzle—which was, in fact, missing three or four pieces.

“Yeah, I know,” Francesca called out. She cracked two eggs into a bowl and whipped them with a fork. “I'll fix it later.”

I had no idea what she meant by that. Either she had the pieces, or she didn't.

At any rate, my bladder wasn't going to hold out much longer. I carefully sat up and slid my legs over the edge of the bed.

Not too much pain, I noted. After I pushed myself up, I walked to the bathroom in record time. I still felt a little groggy. The cracked mirror in here reflected a very disheveled man to me.

Fuck.

I looked like hell. I needed a haircut and a good shave.

I soaped up my face and grabbed Francesca's pink razor from the side of the tub. It was far from a close shave. What could you possibly expect from a cheap piece of plastic?

Even so, it was an improvement.

I hobbled into the shower and did a thorough once over.

After I dried off, I opened the door and headed out.

The sweet smell of baking hit me.

“You okay?” Francesca stood at the sink, washing dishes. How could she look so fuckin' sexy washing dishes?

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