Page 10 of Hidden Rocco
Her nose twisted like he’d asked the wrong question and then she said, “I don’t have one. But don’t get any ideas. I watched your room on my security camera. You seemed pretty tired, so I took a chance on you because of the storm.”
“I will do you no wrong, ma’am.” What stupid man would leave a woman like Mica, and his own son? Rocco’s shoulders straightened, wanting to speak to the man himself. “Your boy is young.”
Her lips pouted, her face red. “His father is dead.”
His muscles tightened as he noticed that she didn’t seem sad about it, but angry. He shook it off. Grief was strange. He lowered his head. “I’m so sorry, ma’am.”
She had red in her brown hues as she snorted though her baby didn’t react with more than a wide-eyed glance around. “I’m not. I’m glad.”
Mica cooed and smiled at her son.
His mind swirled but he returned to the stove and added bacon to an oval platter. “Why?”
Rocco put the omelet and bacon in the middle of the small table in front of her.
“He tried to kill me to stop me from having a baby because he wanted to marry someone else.” She spoke like this was normal.
Not a way to treat a dog, never mind a beautiful woman. Any man would be lucky to have someone like Mica in his life. Strong, clear headed women who knew how to get whatever they wanted but still kind were like rare flowers. He slumped in his chair. “That’s brutal.”
She smiled and nodded like they’d shared some sort of joke. “I think so, which is why I’m not sad that he got what was coming to him.”
At least she had a heart despite the horror she’d seen. In prison that spirit of hers kept a man alive. He sat at the table and folded his hands in front of him. “How will you explain that to your son?”
The baby rested on her shoulder. Rocco glanced around the room to the pantry. He vaguely remembered something foldable from his earlier search and jumped out of his seat to get it.
“He’ll know his mother wanted him so much she fought for their lives,” Mica said.
He found the square object and snapped his fingers. It was a Pack 'N Play playpen. He laughed and unfolded it. The mind sometimes sees things before being aware of what or why was something he'd read in many of the self-help books that he’d devoured over the past two years. “That’s… good. I made it here yesterday before the storm, climbing that mountain, intent on surviving. I will find a way to help my mother, who I wish had your fighting spirit.” He needed to make money for her care.
“Is she sick?”
He brought over the Pack'N Play so she might eat with both hands, pushing it next to her. “Cancer.”
“That’s horrible, Rocco.” She didn’t move at first, so he backed up. He didn’t want to frighten her as she clutched her child.
Mica gently laid the baby down and he took the seat opposite her.
Until this morning he hadn’t realized how much fun cooking could be. Was it good?
Mica picked up her fork and put a bite of omelet in her mouth. She chewed and her lips were beautiful. She’d kiss like a dream, he thought. He glanced at his untouched food. “So, how are the eggs?”
She nodded like everything was perfect. “Good.”
He took a few bites—it had been years since he’d tasted anything so wonderful that he’d made. Before prison he used to enjoy watching TV chefs and YouTube channels to learn fancier meals than flipping a burger. He was glad he’d remembered how to make an herb seasoning.
He never should have been confined in jail and had argued for a new trial, stating his innocence, but no one had cared.
She finished her eggs and put her fork down, wiping her lips which had his attention. Mica, with her brown eyes, light brown hair, and curves was riveting in simple jeans and a black t-shirt. Her confidence was the first thing anyone might see, and she didn’t wear an ounce of makeup. Once she put her napkin down, she folded her hands in front of her and glanced at him up and down. “Do you need a job?”
His loose-fitting clothes that he'd hand-washed must have given him away, but he didn’t argue. “I do.”
She sat backward and stared like she was the Queen of England while she assessed him. “How handy are you?”
Wait. Was this an interview? He sat straighter and said, “I can fix what needs fixing. In the marines, I spent years with electrical and before that at my mother’s house, I used all my tools every day for years to fix whatever she needed.”
She let her hands fall to her side, checked her son, and nodded at him as she said, “Strangely enough I slept better last night with you here.”
He hadn’t left the room she’d given him. He’d kept quiet and didn’t dare leave the room until the sun shone through his window. The sunrise had been yellow and orange, breaking the dark sky in bursts of color with snow white on the ground for miles around them. “I didn’t do anything.”
