Page 5 of Mercy (The Sins Trilogy 3)
Chapter Two
Ivy
While Tony’s upstairs in the shower, I text Bobbi, telling her she can take the rest of the day off if she wants. She responds she’d rather not, but I insist.
He and I have a lot to talk about, all private stuff. I don’t want you keep you waiting.
I’m getting paid to sit on my ass. You won’t hear me complaining.
I marvel at her professional stubbornness. Suit yourself, then.
I help myself to another cup of coffee and note the rumpled pillow on the couch where Tony was lying when I walked in earlier. It surprised me how bad he looked.
Tony looked terrible when I stayed with Yuna briefly after Sam told me about the blue dress, too. He rarely seems to value himself as he is. And maybe that has something to do with the tense interaction between him and his mother, who showed zero concern for his wellbeing.
Although I stayed quiet because I was trying to process their conversation without knowing all the history, it was weird and off-putting that she decided to play mom to me. When we were coming up, sharing the same elevator, she didn’t say a single word, her gaze glued to the numerical floor display. Not the action of a woman who cares about me. I only held my tongue because she’s Tony’s mother, and I didn’t want to add to the strain between them.
But the way she fawned over Harry… Wow. I like Harry, and I can imagine any mother doting on a son as fun and sweet as him. But she couldn’t have been crueler to Tony. While he watched the interaction stonily, Harry looked like he was standing on a cushion full of nails.
Now I’m starting to feel glad Margot won’t be part of our lives much. I was worried, wondering if Tony would feel hurt because his parents wouldn’t come to our wedding. But he’s probably relieved they aren’t going to bother.
I’m almost done with my second coffee by the time Tony comes down. He looks much better now. His face is cleanly shaven, and his hair is damp and slicked back. It’s a bit too long, but it looks good on him. He smells of his shower gel and shampoo, a combination I find irresistible on him. Although he’s lost some weight, I’m sure he’ll fill out again soon with some decent meals. I have a crazy urge to take him to every gourmet restaurant in town and fatten him up.
“So. What’s for breakfast?” I ask, trying to move us closer to the nice, loving pace we used to have.
“I don’t know.” He scowls, reaching for the fridge door.
“Is there anything to eat in there?” I doubt he’s been grocery shopping. Or had the presence of mind to tell the housekeeper who comes by to stock the fridge.
“Harry brought some stuff.” Tony looks the stuff inside the fridge, a hand on his chin. “No yogurt, though.” He sighs. “How about lox and bagels? I can also fry up some bacon. That’s one thing he never lets run out.”
I’d much rather have yogurt, but if I say that, Tony’s going to go get it or take me out to eat, and I don’t want to leave. This is just two of us, talking and trying to figure out how we can fix things. Going out means the outside world intruding on us, and that isn’t going to help. “Sure.”
He takes the food from the fridge and arranges everything. He always moves with the kind of confidence that says he knows exactly what he needs to do. It’s never failed to mesmerize me. A lot of people say confidence is sexy, but I never understood how much until I met Tony.
A lot of things were conceptual until I met him.
Love. Intimacy. Longing.
More than anything, I wish we could have love and intimacy back.
The smell of bacon frying fills the kitchen. “Is there anything I can do to help?” I ask.
“Nope. It’s all good.” He places toasted bagels, whipped plain cream cheese—the only kind I like—and slices of lox on a platter and sets it on the counter. I sit on a stool and wait for the bacon, admiring his body. Even though he’s lighter, his shoulders still have amazing width, his hips narrow and legs thick with muscle. I know how strong they are, too. He often carried me like I weighed nothing.
Finally, he puts the strips of bacon on a plate and sets it next to a platter of bagels. “Grapefruit juice?”
“Sure.”
He serves it to me, then brings a glass of water for himself.
I take a bite of the perfectly cooked bacon. I watch Tony devour two halves of a bagel and several slices of lox, feeling warm satisfaction. I reach for another piece, wondering if we used to share breakfast like this before my coma. “We knew each other for a long time, didn’t we?”
“Something like that,” he says, sounding slightly guarded.
It doesn’t sound like he’s worried about having to hide things. But he seems worried about how I’ll react. Does he think I’m going to pack up and leave again if I don’t like his answer? Or does he think I’m never going to trust anything he tells me?
Probably a fair thing for him to worry about. It requires a true effort for me to believe him, but believe him I will. Otherwise, I might as well not have come back.
