Dark Castle: A Mafia Fairy Tale Romance by Shanna Handel

Author:Shanna Handel [Handel, Shanna]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2021-09-28T16:00:00+00:00

15

Willow

We find sleeping bags stowed in a corner of the kitchen. We work together to make a comfortable spot on the rug in front of the fire. He nods to the pallet as he heads toward the door, his hand on the gun at his hip. “I’ll take guard. You sleep.”

“You have to sleep too.”

“I’ll catch a nap when the sun comes up.” He shoots me that grin that makes my knees go weak. The one that makes all his girls’ knees go weak, I suppose. “Maybe you can cook us some breakfast tomorrow.”

I slide into the sleeping bag. Despite the danger surrounding us, the heat and chill of my emotions, the confusion I feel over whatever it is that is happening between Santo and me, I fall into a heavy sleep.

He wakes me when the sun rises, shaking my shoulder gently. “Wake up.”

I stand, stretching my muscles. They’re tight from sleeping on a hard surface. “Get some sleep. I’ll make us something to eat.”

He looks around, unsure he wants to let his guard down. But his eyes are bloodshot from staying up all night. His fatigue wins. “Alright. But wake me if you hear anything at all.”

He falls down on the sleeping bag, not even bothering to crawl inside. I can hear his gentle snores before I even reach the kitchen. My unbalanced mood seems to settle once I get to work.

The kitchen has always been my happy place. I hum to myself as I spend an hour organizing the shelves of the pantry where they’ve stored the dry goods. When I’m done, the cans are lined up on the top shelf, like foods grouped together, their labels neatly facing forward like dutiful soldiers.

Dry goods are on the next shelf down, the spines of their boxes turned so you can read their contents. I arrange the pots and pans and dishes on the bottom shelf of the big pantry.

Satisfied with my work. I throw together a makeshift pancake batter, using canned milk to thin it. There’s no syrup, but there’s canned fruit. About a half hour later, I have two steaming plates of fluffy, golden pancakes topped with sliced peaches.

Santo is in a deep sleep, his face half buried in the sleeping bag. What I can see of his face is striking. He’s even more handsome under the spell of sleep. I have to look away.

I let him sleep.

I eat my plate first. Still hungry, I eye his. What the heck, why not? I can make him a fresh batch when he wakes up. I devour his stack as well, washing it down with a bottle of water.

I clear the plates, washing them in the cold water. I wipe out the cast iron skillet with a damp rag, then make another bowl of batter. Slouching down in a chair by the window, I wish I had one of my books. I don’t want to be alone with my thoughts.

He loves me….he loves me not.

A few minutes later, he comes sauntering into the kitchen, yawning and stretching like a panther.

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