Page 74 of Coerced Kiss
“This ismyplace. I can come here whenever the hell I please.”
“Was.” He puts the box down and straightens in no particular hurry. “Itwasyour place.”
“My things are still here.”
“I told you I’d have everything packed up and moved.”
“I came to pack a few personal things.”
His smile turns knowing. “Of course.”
Oh my God. Did he go through my drawers? Why wouldn’t he? After all, he planted damn cameras in my apartment.
“Do you need a few boxes?” he asks. “I can send for some.”
“I have a bag,” I mumble, pushing past him.
“I’ll give you some privacy,” he says to my back. “I’ll wait in the lounge. I can carry the bag down when you’re done.”
Biting my tongue before I tell him to take a hike, I yank an overnight bag from the closet and start packing.
He doesn’t ask what’s in the bag or make a suggestive comment about mypersonal itemsas I expected when he escorts me downstairs to the car.
We drive to his place together. I’m still not talking to him, and he’s absorbed in his phone.
He only speaks again when we arrive at his house. “Would you like to have a shower while I fix dinner?”
“Yes,” I say, grateful to escape.
He gets out of the car and comes around to open my door. “Go ahead. I’ll bring your bag upstairs.”
I don’t let him invite me twice. I rush up the steps and past the men stationed on the porch.
One of them lets me in.
I mumble a thank you and dart upstairs where I lock myself in the bathroom. It takes a long, warm shower and another while before I’m more or less calm again.
When I step out of the bathroom, dressed in a loose-fitting dress, a delicious fragrance of tomato and basil reaches me. At the smell of the tomato, my mouth waters. I suddenly have an absurd craving for tomato soup, which I never liked.
Following the appetizing smell, I go downstairs. Saverio stands in front of the stove with his back turned to me, stirring something in a pot. He’s still dressed in his fancy suit pants and white dress shirt, but he removed his jacket and folded back the sleeves of the shirt.
“Grab a seat,” he says without turning around.
He didn’t see me. I’m wearing socks, so he didn’t hear me enter either. “How did you know I was here?”
“I have sharp senses.”
Going to the island counter, I sit down on a stool. “I suppose sharp senses are indispensable in your business.”
He flashes me a disarming smile from over his shoulder.
My heart gives a funny little jerk.
“I’m making homemade marinara sauce,” he says. “Think you’ll be able to stomach spaghetti?”
“It smells delicious.”
He carries the pot to the counter and puts it on a cork plate. “It’s my mother’s recipe.”