Page 115 of Craving Francesca

“It doesn’t,” I whispered. “It doesn’t matter which one of us puts it on. I’ve never, not for one second, thought that you’d ever put me at risk.”

“You can put it on,” he murmured seriously. “I don’t care. I like your hands on me—”

“Gray,” I cut him off, pushing myself up until we were nose to nose. I cupped his cheeks in my hands. “I trust you. I love you. Put the condom on so I can fuck you.”

His hands were already moving before the last sentence had left my mouth. I laughed as he pushed me backward with his body until I was laid out on the bed again.

“I love you, too, Francesca Marino,” he murmured against my mouth.

We took our time. We murmured sweet nothings that I’d never admit to. Eventually, we crawled under the blanket and passed out.

Later that night, we grilled steaks with Lou and fell into my bed again, whispering and laughing about how glad we were that my sturdy antique bed didn’t squeak.

I called Myla’s mom the next morning and planned to have dinner that night. Gray offered to go with me, but since we’d be discussing my job, I felt like I had to do it by myself. It wasn’t as if I was going to a stranger’s house. It was the first time we’d been apart since our fight, and it felt a little strange—but also…good. I knew he’d be waiting when I got back to the camper. He knew that I’d show up when I was finished.

I knocked on Myla’s parents’ front door that night, opening it before anyone had time to answer—like I always had—and then froze just inside.

It was a fucking business meeting. I shouldn’t have walked in like I owned the place.

“What the hell are you doing standing in the doorway?” Heather called as she peeked out of the kitchen. “Take your coat off, stay a while.”

I hung my coat on the rack and walked toward the kitchen. Low music was playing, and it smelled like spaghetti.

“Good, you’re here,” Tommy greeted. “You want a beer?”

“No thanks.”

“No thanks, she says,” he called to Heather across the kitchen. He shook his head. “Get in here, kid.”

“I brought my ID and my social security card,” I said quickly, reaching for my purse. “And I have references—”

“Frank,” Tommy said, cutting me off. “Please tell me you know your own Social Security number.”

“Well, yeah,” I replied slowly. “But don’t you want to look at it?”

“Why the hell would I want to do that?”

I just stared at him. Any job I’d ever started had asked to make copies of my information.

“Papers are on the counter.” He pointed. “Fill ’em out before you keel over from nerves.”

“I’m really grateful—”

“Frankie,” Heather said gently as she crossed the kitchen. She set her hands on my shoulders. “You’ve got the job. We know you. We love you. Now, relax.”

I nodded and followed her over to the counter. As I filled out the paperwork and looked over my contract, my mouth dropped open in surprise.

“Tommy, this is more than I was getting paid before.”

“Oh, good,” he muttered, walking past me. He disappeared outside and came back in with three beers.

“I thought you were going to match my old salary?”

“They were paying you shit,” he replied nonchalantly. “I’m not gonna pay one of my kids shit.”

Ignoring the lump in my throat, I finished filling everything out. When I was done, I just sat there. I wasn’t sure what to say. I’d spent so long trying to find a new job, and then suddenly, an opportunity had just fallen into my lap. Those kinds of things didn’t happen to me.

Finally, I spun around to face him.

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