Chapter Six

CHAPTER SIX

ANDREAS

T hree days have come and gone since those men paid me a visit. When their empty threats dissipate like smoke, I dismiss them, chalking up the encounter to misguided outburst. Thankfully, because my employees were giving me those “is he alright?” looks, and it’s getting awkward — everyone except Liam. I clench my fist. Nor can I look at myself in the mirror if I put Zeva in danger.

The longer Zeva remains in my house, the more these walls smell and feel like home. Her presence is my mother’s house growing up with the scent of freshly baked cookies, my grandmother’s and aunt’s cooking and my late wife’s love for celebrating. Zeva’s 5’3" frame houses all those qualities and more.

I shove my head under the shower, letting the spray of warm water cascade down my body and exhale for what feels like the first time in three years. I wait for the guilt to tighten my chest. Guilt over not being by her side when she died, letting her down … not holding her hand as her life slipped away. When that crushing emotion doesn’t come as painfully as it usually did, I slam my fist against the tile to tiger the shame that always assaults me when I consider taking my aunt’s advice to heal my broken heart. A dull ache radiates up my arm from the impact, but it isn’t the emotions I recognize. The ones that have kept me hidden behind these walls.

Zeva feels rights and so does holding space for Amber.

I inhale swiftly and a shudder races down my spine. A giddy warmth fills my stomach and my palms tingles as my pulse quickens, rushing blood through my veins, and I recognize the feeling for what it is.

Tenderness for Zeva.

Desire.

Love…

Somewhere between her standing on my front stoop and decorating my house so the neighbors don’t think I’m scrooge, I feel head over heals in love. For all my past involvement in the maffia, how did I miss her stealing my heart?

Zeva knocks on the door, interrupting my thoughts. “Dinner is almost ready,” she says from the other side of the door.

“I’ll be right out.”

“I can’t find the napkins. Any ideas?”

Paper towels were my go to when I ate, if I ate at home at all. “Check the cabinet,” I say, turning off the water.

“Hurry, food’s getting cold.”

Chuckling at her impatience, I swiftly dress in a pair of slacks and wool holiday sweater my aunt gifted me last year and head downstairs. I have a skip in my step and a whistle on my lips, which turns into unease when I see what’s in Zeva’s hand. It’s a box I keep with photos of my late wife. Happy memories. Moments that help me remember on days when all I recalled was her fatigue and tiredness.

Except for her favorite scarf, I’d donated what clothing she hadn’t given away herself. Even in her dying days, Amber thought of me, doing what she knew I couldn’t.

Zeva ignores me, placing the lid on top of the cabinet with such gentleness my throat tightens. “Why do you have these here?”

I want to reach for them, snatch them out of her hands. Instead, I bury my hands in my pockets. “Does it bother you I have them?” Defying the government, hiding assets in plain sight … layering money and using shell companies I’m good at. Letting people into my circle of trust and love is foreign.

She glances up at me and I see her eyes are glossy. “I’d be more worried if you didn’t have them.”

“You don’t think holding on to them means that I’m not ready to move on?”

“That’s the silliest thing I’ve ever heard.” She shakes her head. Zeva waves her hand at the room. “Now I understand there are no photos and your house is sooo … sterile, you think that’s what your friends in Magnolia want to see…”

I clench my jaw. With no work to bury my sorrows in, I sold our house and moved to this town with my aunt just so the tasteless casseroles and the pity in the eyes of everyone around me would stop. This house … this town has no reminders of my pain except for what’s in that box and the scarf hanging in my closet.

With a shaky hand, she lifts a photo from the top of the pile and I know the image instantly, without seeing it. It’s one of Amber laying in the snow angel she made in our old yard. Our last winter. “Recordaremos este momento para siempre,” I say.

“What does that mean?”

“We’ll remember this moment forever.” Amber had said the exact phrase so often that I memorized it.

“She was making memories,” Zeva says softly. “For you.”

My eyes sting, and I blink back the tears clouding my vision.

“She’s beautiful.”

“She was. She was also a Puerto Rican fireball that loved to dance.”

Zeva smiled. “There’s tenderness in her eyes, as if she understood you need it.”

I close the gap between us, but I don’t touch her because I’m too afraid of her rejection. “Do you think …” I clear my throat. “Knowing she holds a place in my heart, are you willing to give us a chance, even if it means facing the difficulties ahead?”