Page 125 of Beauty and the Daddy
"I followed the recipe." He's scowling at his fork like it's the cutlery's fault.
"Did the recipe say 'burn until it's charred'?"
He mutters something about ungrateful women and stomps to the fridge.
Five minutes later, he sets down ham-and-cheese sandwiches like a man defeated.
"Perfect," I say brightly, taking a big bite. "This, you can handle."
"I know… right." He sounds way too impressed with himself, and I laugh.
We eat like that, joking, talking, like it's goddamn family night and by the end of it, I'm soft on the edges because just being around Luca turns me to mush.
"Thank you," I say as we finish eating. "Not just for the sandwich. For everything."
He takes my hand across the counter, his thumb tracing circles on my skin. "You don't have to thank me, Belle."
"I know." I squeeze his fingers. "But I want to."
When we're done, he gathers the plates and loads them into the dishwasher.
I watch him and think about how bizarre it is to see Luca Moretti, the goddamn Beast of New York, doing something so mundane.
"Ready for bed?" he asks, turning back to me.
"It's hard to be tired when you haven't let me move a finger all day, but yes, as long as you're ready to cuddle me all night."
He smiles, walking over, and before I can stop him, he's scooped me up in his arms.
"I can walk!" I laugh. "I was shot in the arm, not the leg, you caveman."
"Humor me," he murmurs, carrying me down the hall toward our bedroom. "I like taking care of you."
"I can tell," I say, but my voice has gone soft.
It's nice being held like I'm precious and matter enough to protect.
He nudges the bedroom door open with his foot and carries me to the bed, setting me down so gently you'd think I was made of crystal.
The lamp throws a soft glow across the room, gilding his skin in warm light, turning him into something far more than beautiful.
Ethereal, maybe.
"You're staring," he says, sitting beside me.
"I've earned the right." My eyes trace the planes of his face, memorizing every line. "Almost dying gives you certain privileges."
His expression darkens. "Don't joke about that."
"Sorry," I whisper, reaching up to touch his cheek. "Too soon?"
"Always too soon," he says, turning to press a kiss to my palm. "I never want to see you hurt again."
"Then you're in for disappointment." I smile to take the sting out of my words. "I'm clumsy as hell. Just last week I bruised my shin on the coffee table and?—"
He cuts me off with a kiss, soft and searching, like he's making sure I'm really here.
Like he's afraid I'll evaporate if he presses too hard.
