Page 41 of Mafia And Maid
I turn back to the counter where I was chopping. Carefully, I slice the carrots and bell peppers, setting the pieces out on a platter. I realized after my second day that Camillo is a big snacker, and rather than risk accidentally messing up and being tossed out on my ass, I’ve made it a point to make sure there is a healthy amount of fruit and vegetable platters always available.
Wordlessly, I push the platter toward him and start to wash the board and knife.
“Thanks,” he murmurs as he flops onto a barstool. “Can I do anything to help?”
Alarm flares to life inside me. “No!” I blurt out before mustering a weak smile. It’s the same one I mastered living with Grayden, the one that doesn’t quite reach my eyes. “No, no, it’s okay. I’ve got it under control.”
Does he think I’m slacking off? That I can’t do all the work they’ve given me? My breathing picks up, but I struggle to take a full breath. If he thinks that, then maybe so do his brothers. MaybeMarco has changed his mind about giving me the job, and this is their way of telling me to pack up and hit the road…
The screech of his barstool against the wood flooring makes me wince. I can’t quite find the courage to look back up at him. “Rosa?”
I hesitate. “Yes?”
There’s a long pregnant pause, and I distinctly hear him curse under his breath. “I’ll leave you to it. Thanks.”
I nod slowly, lifting my eyes back up to his retreating form, the muscles of his back bunching and pulling tight.
It takes me another heartbeat to realize I’m not moving. Instead, I’m rooted to the place, trying to identify the feeling rumbling to life inside me.
But I come up empty-handed.
***
The rest of the afternoon passes in a blur, and the next thing I know, everyone is arriving home for the evening meal. I’m standing at the counter slicing the garlic bread I’ve just baked.
“God, it smells like heaven in here.” Camillo’s low voice rumbles as the men slide into their usual seats around the table.
He’s changed from the work out gear he was wearing earlier into what I’ve realized is his usual attire—an expensive black shirt pulled taut against his giant frame and designer jeans. It’s different than the suits his brothers wear, but it suits him. His thick, glossy hair is in a messy knot, a change from the half-up style he usually sports.
I want to brush the compliment away to the side. I want to tell him it’s not that fancy or worthy of praise. I want to tell him that he doesn’t need to lie to save my feelings. My head dips, and I set the plate with the bread down on the table.
Camillo’s large hand catches my wrist.
I freeze. My cheeks heat at the realization that he’s so near that he can probably hear the frantic beating of my heart.
Tingles race up my arm. And my hand trembles within his grasp. It’s a loose hold, and if I wanted, I could pull my wrist back.
But I can’t move.
His sandalwood and sage scent fills my nose, and I fight the urge to inhale deeply. It’s warm and inviting—and nothing like the man who wears it.
“Thank you for the bread…and well, dinner.”
His voice is soft yet gravelly at the same time. I want to think that there’s something more to what he’s saying.
But that’s simply wishful thinking in some fantasy land I’ve been dropped into. I bite the inside of my cheek to snap myself out of it. I’m reading into something that isn’t there.
My mouth opens to brush it off, but the words are lodged into my throat.
Camillo releases my hand as if it’s burned him and clears his throat. I hear him gulp at his glass of water. His brothers don’t seem to have noticed a thing.
But I can’t bring myself to look at him. To see if there’s something in those deep brown eyes that’ll explain what’s just happened.
I hurry back to the counter for the rest of the meal. Someone moves behind me, but I don’t turn. I don’t dare look back—because I know I’m seeing things that aren’t there. My stomach is in knots as I quickly finish putting the dishes out.
Afterward, on shaky legs, I manage to make it back to the island and begin cleaning up. It’s not quite the distraction I need it to be as my traitorous brain keeps replaying the feeling of his calloused fingers wrapped around my wrist, the heat from his hand permanently seared into mine.
What on earth is going on with me? Maybe I’m coming down with a fever or something. Is that why I’m reading too much into a simple friendly gesture?