Just as promised, he comes back with some clothes under one arm and a tray in his hands. He sets it down on the nightstand, and a quick glance at it has my mouth watering. There’s water and juice, a banana, and a plate with two pieces of toast with what appears to be butter and jam. My stomach rumbles at the sight. Simple, regular food like this hasn’t been on my meal plan for years.
“Here.” He hands me the bundle of fabric, then turns around to give me some privacy. But not until after he grabs the remote for the bed and tilts it up, making it easier for me to sit up.
It all goes painfully slow, and when I’m finally out, I stare at his back in disbelief. He doesn’t even try to get a glimpse of me in my underwear. That should make me happy, right?
I take off my dress, thankful it was one that was wrapped in the front, and focus on the clothes in front of me. A soft white T-shirt and some sweatpants.
It’s a white shirt.White.
My chest rises while I stare at it. “You don’t have a black shirt?”
He sighs, and when he speaks, the bite is back in his voice. “I think we both know there’s no need for you to wear black.”
My heart misses a beat at the way he says those words with so much conviction. “But—”
“Are you telling me you mourn the man you were ordered to marry?”
“No.” The word is out of my mouth before I can stop it.
I should feel bad about saying it out loud, or about feeling nothing at all, but Matteo is right. I don’t mourn Luigi, I never have. Not in the way a wife should have mourned her husband. Not considering this handsome stranger occupied my thoughts, even before my husband was killed.
“You don’t have to pretend with me, passerotta.”
I press my lips together. Am I that easy to read? Did I just waste years of my life pretending to be someone I’m not for nothing? I’m pretty sure my dad and everyone else in the family buys it, everyone except Ally . . . and now Matteo.
He rolls his shoulders back. “Stop overthinking this and put the damn shirt on. It’ll make it easier for me to spot if you’re bleeding.”
An image of my dad’s disapproving expression pops into my head for even considering wearing white, but I push it aside and cling to Matteo’s last comment. Itwillmake it easier to keep an eye on my injury. No one can argue with that, right?
With renewed determination, I shove my arms through the sleeves, immediately regretting it because the movement tugs at my wound. “Damn it.”
Matteo is at my side in an instant, helping me get my arms into the sleeves and sliding the soft fabric over my head and down my body. The shirt is way too big for me, easily falling to my hips when he helps me stand with a hand behind my back.
With his head right next to mine, my breath hitches with him lingering there. His breath whispers over my ear, and his woodsy orange scent invigorates my sense of smell. The combination of it has my heart fluttering.
He clears his throat and draws back. “Let’s put the pants on after your trip to the bathroom.”
“Okay.”
“Put your arm around my middle and hold on as much as you can.”
I do as he says and wrap my left arm around his lower back. Since I can’t reach all the way around, I clutch a fistful of his shirt and hang on for dear life.
We carefully make our way to the en suite, and I flinch with every step we take. You never realize how much you use certain body parts until you injure them.
Matteo reaches inside the room to switch on the light. The bathroom is mostly white with gray undertones, very similar to the bedroom.
“Is your favorite color gray?”
He frowns at me. “No, why?”
I bite my lower lip. “Just wondering.”
He ignores my randomness and walks me right up to the toilet. “Do you need help here?”
I grimace at the thought and glance at my feet. How mortifying. “I think I’ve got it, thanks.”
“I’ll be right outside the door.” He lets go of me slowly and walks away, clicking the door shut behind him.