Page 35 of He Should Be Mine
“For a fry-up, I can do anything!” I grin.
Dario gives me a strange look. Then he clears his throat. “A fry-up is an English breakfast, yes? Eggs, sausage, baked beans?”
“Toast, bacon, and mushrooms,” I add, as my stomach rumbles and my mouth begins to drool. Then I pause. “Why? Are you going to make me one?”
Damn it. I was aiming for a teasing, joking tone, but it came out all pleading and needy instead.
Dario nods. “We have the ingredients.”
And with that bombshell, he turns and leaves. A moment later and the sounds of cupboard doors opening and the kitchen tap running drift over to me.
What the hell? Is he really going to make me breakfast? Have I died and gone to heaven?
I stumble out of bed and groan. Okay, everything hurts too much for this to be heaven. But whatever strange alternate reality I’ve woken up in, it’s a bloody fantastic one. Nobody has ever made me breakfast before. Let alone any smoking hot Italian men.
I stagger over to the shower. Rick makes me feel dirty in ways no other man ever has. I need to wash him off of me. Every single trace.
Five minutes and several gallons of scalding hot water later, I step out of the shower. I throw on my luxurious dark green fluffy robe and head for the living area. Breakfast smells amazing.
Dario is still cooking, but a place has been set on the breakfast bar in front of him. A huge glass of water. A packet of painkillers, and an orange juice.
I climb onto the stool and attack all three offerings with gusto. “You are an angel, Dario,” I mumble with my mouth full.
He chuckles. “I doubt god would agree.”
Shit. Catholic guilt combined with being a mobster must be, well, a hell of a cross to bear. Excuse the pun. I never thought of it before. Poor Dario, no wonder he is so tormented and brooding.
He leans over the counter and starts piling my plate high with goodies. His whisky brown eyes meet mine for a moment before going back to his task.
There is something different about him today. I can see it in his eyes. It is clear in his entire demeanor. He seems calmer. Resolute. Almost as if he has reached a decision.
“Buon appetito!” I say as I pick up my fork.
My terrible attempt at Italian earns me a smile. A soft, almost tender smile that makes my heart flutter.
I get stuck in to the food. A moan of pure bliss escapes me. Everything is perfect. Dario can really cook. It’s not just that he has memorized a couple of recipes that his mama taught him. Because she never would have taught him how to make an English breakfast.
“This is so good,” I say with my mouth full, continuing with my bad Italian just in case I get another smile.
Dario’s brows furrow. “You speak Italian?”
I roll my eyes. Such a suspicious bastard. Babble some bad Italian at him and suddenly he thinks you are a spy. I swallow my mouthful and take a swig of orange juice before replying.
“My Italian is tiny. It is only what I have picked up from playing with Duolingo for the last six months.” I say in some hideous thrown together version of the language.
Dario’s eyebrows rise. “Your pronunciation is really good.”
“Thank you, Signore,” I beam.
He winces and looks away.
My good mood tumbles. “What? Don’t tell me I got that wrong,” I ask, switching back to English.
He shakes his head. “No, you were perfect. It just reminded me of something.”
Okay. I can live with that. And I know when to butt out and mind my own business. I grin at him and get back to shoveling food into my face. I shift position, and this hard stool really isn’t doing me any favors this morning.
“Did he hurt you?” Dario suddenly snaps.
