Page 12 of He Should Be Mine
Molly is in the kitchen section. He is wearing a baby pink crop top and white shorts.
I frown. Is he dressed like that to wind me up, or because it is summer? I exhale and decide to let it go.
From this angle, I can only see his profile, and when I walk further into the lounge area, Molly will be behind the island. I’m going to have to wait to see what color belly button piercing he is wearing today.
“Good morning!” Molly says brightly. “I made coffee.”
My brows furrow in suspicion. Surely I can’t be forgiven as easily as that. I step closer and examine his blue eyes. They are cerulean in this light, and far prettier than the midsummer sky. They are also free from any resentment. There is no blame or simmering anger.
Molly doesn’t hate me.
I swallow. The bitter taste in my mouth doesn’t feel like relief. Being treated badly is all Molly knows. Abuse is Molly’s normal. He is not bestowing me with forgiveness, he just doesn’t know any better.
He thrusts a cup of black coffee at me. My fingers reach forward and accept it. We don’t touch and the absence stings.
“Freshly ground with my own poor, tired hands,” Molly says. “Since the electric grinder failed to meet your standards. And I added more scoops than last time, as per your feedback.”
I raise the steaming cup to my lips. Molly’s blue eyes are boring into me. I have all of his rapt attention.
“How much arsenic is in it?” I ask.
Molly chuckles. A deep throated sound that moves his firm chest. “Sadly, whenever I put arsenic on the shopping list, you take it off.”
He is right, I always check the grocery order. As well as all the crap he has delivered. I also know exactly what wasin this apartment before Riccardo decided that Molly and I were staying. As for the cleaning lady, she brings her own supplies.
There is nothing here he can poison me with. Besides, I don’t think that’s Molly’s style. He’s more of a dagger man. Possibly a garrotte. If he murdered someone, it would be all violence, passion and fury.
Not poison. So I’m safe enough. For now.
I take a sip. The coffee Molly made me flows over my tongue. Flavors dance. It’s perfect. In every single way.
I grunt and nod.
Molly’s face lights up. It’s more dazzling than the sun. “That’s it? No criticism? No feedback? No lengthy lecture on all the ways it fails to meet your standards?”
I say nothing and take another sip.
Molly lets out an ear piercing squeal. He claps his hands together and gives a little wriggle.
“Oh my god! It’s only taken six months, but I’ve finally done it!”
I ignore him and his exuberance. I take my coffee and get settled on the over-stuffed white leather sofa.
“Want some scrambled eggs?” Molly calls out.
I nod.
He clatters around in the kitchen area, making far more noise than is necessary.
“I’m not even going to attempt making food that meets your approval. You Italian boys are all the same. Nothing but your mama’s cooking will do.”
I continue to ignore him while out of the corner of my eye, I watch him dish up.
He saunters over with two plates of scrambled eggs. I can finally see his taut belly. He is wearing the diamond ring today. It looks good with the white shorts.
He hands me a plate, and plonks down on the sofa, at the far end. Leaving a gap between us.
I pick up the fork and sample his cooking. It’s delicious. Eggs for breakfast aren’t a thing back home, but occasionally they are a side dish to a main meal. Molly’s eggs are nearly as good as Mama’s.
