Page 62 of Amore
“I know what you’re thinking, but we can’t know for sure.”
“Clark left red roses.”
“I know.”
“But how would he know where you live?”
I lifted a shoulder. “The picture is from when we moved some of your stuff from your house to storage. It’s possible whoever took the photo followed us back to my place.”
Her hand slipped from mine as she stood. “This freaks me out again,” she said with panic in her voice.
I stood and brought her against my chest. “There’s a chance it’s just Candace fucking with us.”
“Candace?” Frankie questioned, looking up at me.
“I don’t see how it can be Clark. I think I would have known if someone had been tailing us to my house.”
“But why do you think it was Candace?”
“Because there was no forced entry.”
“She has a key?”
“Honestly, I wouldn’t put it past her to have one I don’t know about, but I never gave her one.”
“Mr. Security, I think we need to change your locks now.” She smirked.
I breathed a sigh of relief that she could make a joke. I didn’t want to remind Frankie that Clark had worked for a security company and had broken into her house by picking her locks the first time. The lock didn’t look tampered with, but that didn’t mean someone hadn’t picked it. It had years of scratch marks on it, so there was no way to tell for sure.
I grinned down at her. “I think we need to make me your live-in bodyguard.”
“I do like the sound of that.”
* * *
A few days later,there were no leads about who broke into my apartment. If we had been in LA, I had a feeling I would have been more upset, but I wasn’t. My focus was on being with Frankie and watching her in her element.
She had the night off from filming, and we were going to a restaurant on the river. Nights in British Columbia were chilly even with it being late July, but the river was beautiful.
“You know what I just realized?” I asked as we made our way to the front door of the restaurant.
“What’s that?”
I grabbed the handle of the wooden door and opened it. “This is our first date as a couple.”
Since we’d been together, we hadn’t gone anywhere that would constitute a date because she had been dealing with the trauma of the attack. While we’d been in Canada, things had seemed to get better in her mind. She was no longer having panic attacks, and our physical connection was off the charts.
Frankie stopped just before walking over the threshold and whispered, “You know, if that’s true, you have to wait until date three to get in my pants.”
“Good thing you’re not wearing any.” I winked and looked down at her bare legs. She had on a skirt and a blouse with a leather jacket on top, but also heels that made it look like she had legs for days.
She threw her head back, laughing as a camera flash went off. I moved to block her, no longer unaware of paparazzi, but it still bothered me. I wasn’t used to my every move being documented, and that seemed to be what the paparazzi did. They hung in the shadows—out in the open too, I suppose—and took picture after picture, hoping to get a shot that they could sell.
Emily had made reservations for us, and we were seated at a table overlooking the water. People looked, people stared, and I was certain people wondered if Frankie Borelli was dating her bodyguard.
The waitress came over and took our drink order, told us the specials, and then left just as Frankie’s phone dinged with a text. Her eyes lit up after she read the text.
“What is it?”
