12. Ginevra

CHAPTER 12

Ginevra

I wish I could honestly say that I hate living in Mr. Baron’s house. That I’m miserable. But I’m not. In fact, I don’t miss my childhood home at all, and moving here may actually be the best thing that’s ever happened to me.

Blake’s never home, so I have the entire place to myself, instead of being stuck in my bedroom like I was at my parents’ house. I no longer have to worry about catching my father’s attention when I venture into the hallway, or to the kitchen, or heading out for the day. There’s no one here to scold me either.

Honestly, it’s heaven. I spend my days doing whatever I want, which is mostly watching TV, eating takeout from a different restaurant for dinner every night, and hanging out with Kyla. She’s Blake’s cook.

She’s offered to make me food on numerous occasions, but I don’t want to take advantage. I’m sure she’s stressed enough having to cook for Mr. Nothing-is-ever-good-enough. But every day I find myself drawn to the kitchen, mostly for the company.

Kyla and I lean against the kitchen’s massive island and watch a cooking competition show on her iPad. I’ve probably said it a hundred times today, and I’m sure she’s getting tired of hearing it, but I state again, “It’s so cool that you won that competition!”

She laughs. “It seems like ages ago now. And I never expected to end up as someone’s private chef. I thought I’d be cooking at one of those high-end restaurants or something. Still, working for Mr. Baron, living in Manhattan, and doing what I love is a dream come true for a poor, Midwest girl like me.”

“I love your story so much.” When the episode comes to an end, the next one auto starts. “It’s so inspiring. And it’s wild that I actually watched this show when it was streaming five years ago. This show was the highlight of my week. Never thought I’d actually meet you in person.”

Yeah, I’m totally fan-girling.

She waves me off. “I just got lucky.”

“No. You’re amazingly talented.” I glance around the pristine, high-end kitchen. “What are we making today?”

“What do you want to make? Anything you want is fine by me.”

Kyla is seriously the coolest person I’ve ever met.

“Really? Okay. Hm… Cookies. I’m craving something sweet and chocolaty. If it’s not too much trouble.”

“Not at all.” Her grin widens. “Chocolate chip cookies it is. I’ll show you my super-secret recipe if you promise not to tell anyone else.”

“My lips are sealed.” A smile stretches across my face.

We spend the next hour baking the most gigantic, delicious, chocolate chip cookies I’ve ever tasted. They’re heaven in my mouth. I moan and do a little dance while I devour the second one in a row.

“It’s nice to have someone appreciate my baking skills,” Kyla says around a mouthful of cookie. “Mr. Baron doesn’t do sweets, so I hardly ever get to bake desserts.”

I’m about to make a snarky comment about Blake’s lack of a sweet tooth, but then I remember that we’re supposed to be a happy couple. So instead, I say, “Hey, it’s his loss, and that just means there’s more for me. We should do dessert every night, because I love sweets.”

She exhales an exaggerated sigh of relief. “Thank God. Finally, someone who will eat all the fabulous dessert recipes I’ve created over the years.”

“But,” I hold up a hand, “you have to teach me how to make them.”

Kyla eyes me. “Do you have an actual interest in the culinary arts?”

“I think so. I’m pretty sure I’ve watched every cooking show that’s ever been made.” My exuberance dies down a little when I think of my old home life. “But my parents’ kitchen was always off-limits to us unless we wanted to cook with Mom. She only showed us how to make traditional Italian dishes, nothing fun or experimental. So I haven’t really had the chance to try.”

“Well, now you live here and this kitchen is always available to you.” She spreads her arms, gesturing to the wide, open space. “And I’ll help you create anything you want. I know you’ve been eating a lot of takeout for dinner, but… I could cook you any of those dishes.”

My face heats as I realize that I’ve probably been offending her by eating food from restaurants every night instead of whatever she cooks for Blake. But until today, I’ve thought of her as his cook, not mine. I didn’t want to be a burden.

“I didn’t mean to be rude—” I start.

“It’s no problem.” She leans her forearms on the counter. “I’m sure you know this but, Mr. Baron eats the same boneless, skinless chicken and vegetables every night for dinner. I’m sorry, but I’m so bored,” she whispers.

A grin splits my face. “Then, let’s fix that. How do you feel about a turducken, or beef Wellington? Oh, I know! Sausage stuffed croissants.”

Kyla laughs and pushes off from the counter. “I’m game for all of those. Which one do you want to make for dinner tomorrow?”

“Beef Wellington? But only if you eat with me. Otherwise I’ll feel guilty and just weird.”

“Deal. I’ll pull together the ingredients and let that beef chill overnight.”

I grab another cookie, stoked about diving into a complicated and time-consuming recipe tomorrow. From what I’ve seen on cooking shows, it’ll take a good chunk of the day.

“Why are we making beef Wellington?” drawls a familiar, deep voice from the doorway.

Kyla offers him a professional smile. “Ms. Pontrelli requested it, sir.”

“Did she?” he says, leaning against the door frame. “Why?”

I square my shoulders and face him. “Because it will be fun.”

“Fun?” He scowls. “Food’s not supposed to be fun.”

“Says who?”

“Says me.”

I roll my eyes. “You know what you need?” Taking one of our creations from the cooling rack, I saunter up to him and slap it to his chest. “A cookie.”

He catches it, probably afraid it’s going to stain his perfectly starched white shirt. Seriously, how does this man look so pristine this late in the afternoon? It’s like he’s stepped out of a fashion magazine page, not just arrived home from the office.

I plant a kiss on his cheek—because we’re keeping up appearances—then stroll out of the kitchen.

With an irritated growl, Blake follows me to the living room. “You can cook whatever you want, just clean up after yourself,” he demands. “This place is a mess.”

“Hardly,” I mutter. This morning, I cleaned up the takeout containers and loaded the silverware and cups into the dishwasher. The living room looks tidy enough to me.

Blake picks up a lap blanket from the couch. “These need to be folded, and the pillows all have places. They’re not to be thrown about wherever.”

Seriously? This guy has issues.

“They are called throw pillows for a reason.”

He blankly stares at me.

“Fine, okay…” I sigh.

“We need to address the situation in the bedroom and bathroom as well.” He continues folding blankets and arranging pillows. It’s so… domestic. It’s an interesting, unexpected look on him.

“What situation ?” I prompt.

He glowers. “You know exactly what I’m talking about. The explosion of your stuff all over the place.”

“My stuff doesn’t have anywhere else to go.” I fold my arms. “Your closet’s too small to hold my clothes and there’s nowhere to put anything in your bathroom either. If you’d let me move into a guest room?—”

“That’s never happening, so drop it.” Finally satisfied with the state of his living room, he turns to me. “You need to keep my house tidy. It should look like this at the end of the day.”

“ Your house? Don’t you mean our house? You’re the one who moved me in here.”

All of my joy over the past few days dissipates. Why’s he being such a grouch?

Blake steps closer to me and lowers his voice. “Just remember, in the grand scheme of things, this is temporary. You’ll be out of here in a year.”

Ouch . Heat blazes behind my eyes. So in other words, I’m not welcome here. This isn’t my home, just a temporary lodging.

“I’ll remember that.” Turning on my heel, I head for the front door.

“Where are you going?” he demands.

“Out.”

“Gin,” he uses that warning tone, which I ignore.

“It’s none of your business.”

He catches up to me at the door and grabs my arm, spinning me toward him. My body collides with his chest. “It is my business.” His blue gaze searches my features. “I swear, if you’re fucking someone?—”

“I’m not fucking anyone! Give it a rest. I know the terms of our agreement and I’m not going to risk going to prison for a bit of dick on the side. How stupid do you think I am?”

He leans toward me, then his lips are crushing mine. My startled inhale gives him full access to my mouth and his tongue sweeps in, tangling with mine. He licks and sucks and devours me with ruthless passion. The sensory overload renders me motionless.

I’ve never been kissed like this. Men have tongue-fucked my mouth and drooled all over me, but they’ve never kissed me like Blake. This kiss is possessive, claiming, passionate—almost desperate, but for what I don’t know.

His arm loops around my waist, holding me to him, and my hands find the warm skin of his neck. Then, surprising myself, I kiss him back.

The heat between us turns into a raging inferno. We’ve caught fire and we’re blissfully burning alive in each other’s arms. The intensity nearly bowls me over.

Blake’s hold on my arm loosens as he skims down my waist, my hip, my thigh, until his thumb finds my clit. I jolt at the new sensation. Moaning, I press into him and he circles my bundle of nerves with more vigor. His touch becomes rougher, more demanding of my body.

Then I smell it—the stench of stale cigar smoke and body odor. His hands on my skin, trapping me beneath his heavy body. His voice in my ear, “ That’s right, come for Uncle Lorenzo before I fuck your tight little-girl cunt. ”

I squeeze my eyes shut and push away from Blake. “No! Get away from me!” The foyer spins around me, and I stumble, catching myself on the entry table. My heart pounds in my ears. My vision blurs and I realize it’s because of the tears in my eyes. I blink them away and focus on calming my nerves.

Why is that horrible memory springing up now?

Blake keeps his distance, a deep frown etched on his face as he watches me hyperventilate. Without a word, he turns and walks away, leaving me here to deal with my own shit.

Fair enough, I know I’m a mess, no matter how hard I try to hide it. But for some reason his abandonment still… hurts.

A few seconds later, he returns with a cold glass of water. “Drink this. Slow your breathing. In through your nose and out through your mouth.” He demonstrates, filling his lungs, then exhales slowly through his parted lips. “Do it with me.”

He came back . For me.

I hold the water glass in my shaking hands, and follow his lead. Gradually, my breathing and heart rate calm down enough that I can sip the icy liquid. I swallow down the glass’s contents, and place it on the table.

“Come with me.” He extends his hand. After a moment’s hesitation, I take it, his palm warm and dry—strong, and he leads me upstairs to our bedroom. There, he sits me on the edge of the bed, disappears into the bathroom and comes back with a cool, damp washcloth. He dabs the cloth against my flushed cheeks and neck.

Closing my heavy eyelids, I relax into his touch. My emotions are in such turmoil that I don’t question or resist the way he’s caring for me right now. No one’s ever treated me like this before.

“Do you want to tell me what happened?” his tone’s calm, soothing even.

I shake my head, the gesture small, but he understands and doesn’t push me for an explanation.

“Whoever hurt you, I’ll kill him .”

I lean forward, resting my forehead against Blake’s solid chest. Exhaustion threatens to pull me under. His arms wrap around me like a cocoon and for the first time in my life I feel safe in a man’s embrace. It’s the most odd, unfamiliar sensation, but with him it feels right. I don’t know why. There’s no logic behind it.

But that sense of safety lowers my defenses. For the first time in many years, I allow myself to vaguely acknowledge the past instead of denying its existence.

Softly, I murmur, “You can’t kill a ghost.”