I stilled.Spoke too soon.Staring in silence was okay. Talking about my husband wasn’t. I shoved another forkful in my mouth, hoping that translated into “less talking, more eating.”
“Normally with clothes on.”
I choked and reached for the glass of wine—the only thing quickly available to drink. Gulping down a mouthful of the dry red, it burned alongside the embarrassment in my cheeks.
If it wasn’t so good and I wasn’t so hungry, I would’ve considered calling it quits on calories for the night and retreating to my room. Instead, I twirled another round of noodles onto my fork.
“Well, it’s his house,” I said, sounding slightly like a frog, adding, “I guess he’s allowed to do what he wants,” and then shoved the next bite in my mouth.
Nonna’s eyes twinkled in a way I didn’t appreciate. Damon probably told her some fairy-tale version of us. His estranged, beloved wife that he’d finally returned to reconcile with. What a load of bullshit. But that was what he was—a load of bullshit in a beautiful suit.
“He give me menu for the week.” She pulled from her pocket a crumpled piece of paper, her arthritic hands kneading it as flat as it would go before sliding it to me.
My jaw stopped working for a second. Between the delicious-sounding pasta meals, there was Chinese written next to Tuesday, in parentheses the name of my favorite Chinese restaurant in the city, the restaurant I’d ordered from every Tuesday that I was home.The restaurant Damon and I had ordered from every Tuesday for the six months we’d lived together.There was also sushi written next to Wednesday and pizza attached to Friday.
We’d had a routine we’d found together. It was the onlything he left behind of us—of him. That and his ring that lay like a marker over my broken heart.
Instinctively, I reached for my neck and then quickly dropped my hand before I absentmindedly pulled the ring into view.
“Everything okay?”
I swallowed and nodded. “Si. Looks great. Grazie.”
Again, her wide, crooked smile warmed me. “Good.” She came around the counter and carefully folded the paper back into her pocket. I was surprised then to feel the weathered skin of her hand on my cheek.
I turned to her, my throat tightening to see the unshed tears that wet her eyes.
“It’s good you are here. Good for him. Good for you, too.”
Yeah, she had no idea what she was talking about. The only good that came from Damon Remington was the orgasms, and even those, I would argue in the end, had only magnified the shattering of my heart.
“I’m sorry,” I told her, shaking my head. “I don’t think so.”
I had no intention of arguing with an old woman who was clearly under the influence of Damon’s charisma; I knew I’d never win. This was what Damon was good at—had always been good at: making anyone and everyone, from criminals to Italian grandmothers, fall under his charming spell.
I set my fork on the empty plate, grateful I’d already finished eating because I’d just lost my appetite.
I went to turn away, but her hand on top of mine stopped me. She stared at me, making sure she had my attention, and then nodded to her arm. With her free hand, she unsteadily pushed her sweater up her forearm, revealing a long, jagged scar.
“Signor Damon save me.” Her knobby pointer finger ran thelength of the injury, and my next heartbeats felt pinched from the organ in my chest.
Of course, he saved her.He saved people. Helped them. Protected them. He painted the picture of a perfect gentleman right up until helping someone else directly conflicted with his own ends, and then the man who saved them instantly became the first to sell them out. Or maybe that was just me.The only one he’d ever vowed his loyalty to.
“Broken things heal stronger.” She poked at the smooth seam of the injury to make her point.
My fist balled and then released. “Bones, yes,” I returned, covering her hand with mine and sliding her sweater back down as I added firmly, “Not hearts.”
The sadness in her eyes tightened my chest for the briefest second before I shivered, my body attuned to another presence in the room.
“Robyn.”
My head jerked to the doorway and the man that filled its frame.
Chapter Eight
Robyn
“You didn’t have to stop on my account,” I said.
