Page 80 of Bastard
“Thank you.”
“Best be prepared for any situation. I’ve learned a hard lesson these past four years. Assume nothing.”
Four years. It’s how long we’ve been apart—until Rome. Does he mean ... us?
“I assumed you’d move on. Yet, you didn’t.”
“¿Qué me estás diciendo?”
He stalks across the room to stand before me. “What I’m saying is you didn’t fall in love with someone more worthy of you. You were given every opportunity to do so, yet you didn’t.”
The T-shirt I’m holding slips out of my hand.
He reaches down to retrieve it, then with a snort, holds it up.
When I see what’s printed on it, I make a small noise in my throat. Rome. The timing couldn’t be worse. It’s like fate has decided to bring me to my knees. He’s right. I haven’t moved on. There’s been no one else but him, always him.
I reach for the shirt.
He pulls it out of reach.
“Give me that.”
He ignores me, moving to his army bag where he tucks it away.
“What do you want with that?”
“A memento.”
“A what?”
“You heard me.”
A memento. The very reason I’ve held onto it. Us, in Rome. Us, by the pool on the yacht. His head between my thighs. His lips on mine.
I resist the urge to flee. To get drunk on Mustafa’s moonshine. To squelch the familiar temptation to throw myself in his arms.
“Go take your bath.” He looks at me the same way he used to—full of hunger, full oflonging. And in this moment, it’s difficult to believe what’s between us isn’t real.
28
“Luciana.”
I awake to the sound of Hayden murmuring my name. My eyes flash open to find him standing next to the large steel basin I use as a tub. The villagers fill it every day for me. A gift to show their appreciation, one I accept with gratitude.
“Me quedé dormida.”
I reach for my towel, but his hand on my shoulder gives me pause.
“Stay. It’s been a long day.”
He retrieves the washcloth from the side of the basin, dips it into the water, and lathers it with soap.
“I can do it,” I protest.
He ignores me and crouches down behind the basin. My wet hair is lifted off my neck and slowly wound around his hand. Cool air dances across my nape, and I think how he’s always loved playing with my hair.
With his free hand, he runs the washcloth across my skin. Gentle strokes that both relax and unnerve me. By the time he’s finished, my nape will be the only cool part of me.
