I laugh. “I can’t get anything by you, can I?” At least he didn’t accuse me of working him for the clothes, which was also true, and I know he understands that perfectly.
“All right, baby, I’m almost out of cash.” He pulls out three hundred dollar bills. “Where do you want to spend these?”
“Shoe store,” I say without hesitation. I gesture at my outfit. “Should I get these?”
“Yes.” He rakes his gaze up and down me appreciatively. “I thought I already said so.”
“Sorry, boss.” I wink as I turn to strut back to the cubicle and change out of the clothes.
In the shoe department, I pick out a pair of wedge sandals and a pair of strappy platform heels. “How much is left?” I smile like a spoiled child after he pays for the clothes and shoes.
“Sixty bucks.” He folds the bills and slides them into my bra. “But I’m all shopped out. Let’s go,bambina.”
“Okay, boss.” I traipse beside him, giddy with the new purchases and the attention of my lover. I hook my arm through his. “May I make you dinner?”
He looks down at me, thoughtfully. When he hesitates, I brace against feeling rejected, but then he says, “Sure.”
We walk to his car, but he hesitates when he unlocks the door. “Why don’t you drive?”
“What?”
“Have you driven at all since your accident?”
“No,” I admit. My heart is already beating faster at the thought of it. It’s true I wasn’t scared riding in his car as a passenger today, but that doesn’t mean I won’t freak out if I get behind a wheel.
“Get in.” He waves me toward the driver’s seat. “I want you to drive. Let’s test your EMDR session.”
I climb in, feeling shaky. I adjust the seat and mirrors, trying to get everything just perfect, as if it would make driving easier. Taking a deep breath, I start the Porsche, check for cars in the mirror and pull out into the stream of traffic. Neither of us speak for the next ten minutes as I navigate my way through the city streets, but after a while, I relax my hands on the steering wheel.
I nod. “It’s okay,” I say on an exhale. “I’m doing okay.”
I experience no panic, and with each mile I drive, it gets easier. By the time I pull into the underground parking garage at my building, I feel more confident about driving. I find a parking spot and turn off the car, turning to grin at Bobby. “Just like riding a bike,” I declare.
“Good job, baby. I’m proud of you.”
Pleasure blooms in my chest at his praise. I take his arm feeling half-giddy with affection.
When we arrive at the apartment, he follows me into the kitchen. “May I help?”
“Do you cook?” It’s weird how little I know about the man who occupies so many of my thoughts.
He grins. “I’m not bad in a kitchen. Better on a grill.”
My heart pinches. These glimpses of domesticity cause me pain. God, am I starting to wish for the full deal? For everything? I didn’t go out looking to get married or settle down. Bobby’s just supposed to be a job.
I pull some white roughy fillets out of the freezer and pop them in a bowl of warm water to thaw. “Actually, I have this covered. You could just set the table?”
“Sure thing,” He empties his pockets onto the countertop before taking out placemats and napkins.
The phone on the counter buzzes, and I reach for it automatically, picking it up to check the text message. Only when I read the wordsWhat’s the latest with the Feds?do I realize it’s not my phone, and I definitely shouldn’t have looked.
“What are you doing?” The ice in Bobby’s tone turns me cold. He stands in the kitchen doorway, his gaze sharp, expression rigid. Jesus. Does he think I’m spying?
I drop the phone like a hot potato. “Oh God.” I shake my hands as if to remove all traces of his phone from them. “I didn’t— I wasn’t—”
He steps forward, looking every inch the dangerous mobster. His face is dark, but the stunned expression conveys something more—betrayal.
A spike of genuine terror shoots through me. Fuck. He actually thinks I’m an informer, or a rat or whatever they call them.