Page 86 of Dangerous Vows

The fact that he has a gun under his jacket isn’t lost on me. He’s here to keep me safe.

I plate the sandwiches, add chips, and slide one across the island.

“You must be hungry. Eat.”

“I can’t,” he protests.

“No one is here. Eat. I insist.”

“I’m not sure Pietro would approve.”

“I got you.” I smile.

He nods but stands as he holds the plate and wolfs down the sandwich. I push the soda toward him as I take a seat near him and nibble at my sandwich.

“Thank you,” he mumbles sheepishly.

“You’re welcome, Arman.”

His eyebrows raised when he heard his name. “Thank you…”

“Amara, call me Amara,” I sweetly supply the title he’s unsure of.

“I’m not sure the boss would like that,” he replies as he puts the plate down and takes the soda. Then, he mutters, “I gotta check the house.” I hear him pop the tab on the can as he walks off.

I smile. Well, he’s not Pietro, but cooking for someone who appreciates it makes me feel good. To be honest, it was nice to chat with someone, even if it was only a few words.

Pietro has been so quiet, and it scares me. I don’t know what he’s thinking. I miss the days when we bantered with words.

I miss working with him at the club. I even misswork. I’m going stir-crazy. I watch TV and step outside periodically to get a breath of fresh air. I pass the day, yearning for Pietro to come home.

Home. The word meant so much when he said it, and now, I realize I don’t have one.

It’s late in the afternoon when the front door opens. He’s early today. He’s scrolling through his phone, shrugging off his coat. He’s as tense as ever, and his eyes briefly look at me before he busies himself with a text. He drapes the coat over a barstool and ignores me.

I have a second to take him in. His shirt is wrinkled, like he slept in it and his eyes are tired. I long to run my hands over his solid chest and rake my nails over his taut abs, but he hasn’t touched me in that way, and it hurts.

He places his phone on the counter and rolls up his sleeves, revealing his strong, tatted forearms, and the dark ink coiled around his wrist like a secret on display. Just when I think he’ll continue to ignore me, he speaks.

“How are you feeling?”

“Much better, thank you. Long day?” I inquire.

“The usual.”

“I’ll cook dinner,” I volunteer, excited at the possibility that we can eat together like adults. It only makes sense since we will eventually be co-parents. I have no idea what he has envisioned as living arrangementsafter this war is over. He’ll be hard-pressed to keep his child close to him without me because I’m not letting my child out of my sight.

“Fine.”

Great. A one-word conversation. Again.

“Can I call Sarah?” I ask quietly.

He lifts his eyes to mine. There’s that flicker, it’s guarded but soft. “Three minutes.”

He hands me his phone like it weighs something heavy. I step to the living room window, clutching it with both hands as I push in the number and listen to it ring.

“Amara?” Sarah’s voice fills the line like sunlight.

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