Total pages in book: 114
Estimated words: 109562 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 548(@200wpm)___ 438(@250wpm)___ 365(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 109562 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 548(@200wpm)___ 438(@250wpm)___ 365(@300wpm)
“Anya,” I say in a controlled but terse voice, my gaze searching for the danger behind the island counter and in the dark shadows of the pantry as I move quickly toward her.
At the sound of her name, she jerks. When she looks up, her eyes grow round. “Saverio.” She raises her hands, staring at the gun. “What are you doing?”
She’s alone. Not under attack. Not in pain. Not bleeding. Not in distress. Except for the distress that the gun I’m waving at her is causing, that is.
“Jesus,” I say, lowering the weapon and spearing my fingers through my hair.
A can of tomatoes, the lid peeled open, lies next to the fridge.
“What are you doing?” she asks again, her tone uncertain. Scared.
I take a breath, take a moment to let the air fill my lungs. “I heard a noise.” I flick on the safety, walk around the mess, and put the gun on the fridge where it’s high enough to be out of her reach. “What are you doing?”
“Sorry,” she says, catching her bottom lip between her teeth. “I didn’t mean to wake you. I felt a little peckish, but the can slipped from my hands.”
I frown. “Are you hungry?”
She averts her gaze, almost appearing guilty. “We didn’t eat a proper dinner.”
“So you wanted to snack on canned tomatoes?”
Sticking her tongue into her cheek, she shrugs. “With Worcester sauce.”
“Worcester sauce?” I ask, going to the sink and grabbing a roll of paper towels from the cupboard underneath.
“Livy used to make me toast with grilled cheese and Worcester sauce when I was little.”
I crouch down and wipe up the mess. “You want grilled cheese on toast?”
“Just tomatoes with the sauce.”
Resting a hand on my bent knee, I look at her. “Let me get this straight. You want canned tomatoes with Worcester sauce.”
“Yes,” she says enthusiastically before adding hopefully, “You don’t happen to have Worcester sauce, do you?”
“No.” I get up and throw the soaked paper towels in the trash. “I’ve never had the craving.”
And then I stop dead.
Fuck me.
She’s having one of those weird cravings pregnant women get, those inexplicable urges to eat strange food combinations for a reason no one can explain. Some articles I read suggested it’s their bodies’ way of telling them they need certain nutrients. Vitamin C and sodium? Others said the hormones heighten a woman’s sense of smell and taste, causing these strange culinary desires.
“Here,” I say, offering her a hand and helping her to her feet. “I’ll go get you some.”
She blinks. “It’s three o’clock in the morning.”
My smile is teasing. “There are twenty-four-seven shops in New York City.”
“You can’t go out looking for a shop at this hour.”
“It won’t take me long.” I grab the gun and walk to the door. Turning back, I say, “If you’re going to walk around barefoot at night, switch on the underfloor heating. I don’t want you to catch a cold. While you’re at it, go put on socks and a sweater. When I go to bed, I switch off the heat in the rooms I don’t use, but seeing that you’re sleepwalking at all hours, I’ll leave it on. In any event, it’ll take a while before the kitchen is warm.”
Leaving her with that order, I get dressed and take the Corvette out of the garage before locking up and making sure the alarm is set. I tell the men stationed outside I’ll be out and to let no one near the house.
“Shoot first and ask questions later,” I say.
They comply with a uniform, “Yes, sir.”
I use a phone app to find a few shops that are open, but none of them stock Worcester sauce. I drive from Brooklyn to Queens, making several stops on my way. It’s only at a small convenience store in Chinatown where I find what I’m looking for. I take the maxi size bottle of sauce and make my way to the counter. On second thought, I throw in a few cans of tomatoes, choosing diced, whole, pureed, and sun-dried ones.
The guy who rings up the items gives my sweatpants and overcoat a knowing grin. “Pregnant wife, huh?”
I pause in counting out cash from my wallet. “Excuse me?”
“The missus has a bun in the oven.” He waves at my purchases. “No man will come out at this hour dressed like he pulled on his clothes in a hurry to buy shit you can get at a supermarket in the daylight hours.”
“Something like that,” I say, giving him the money.
And I’ll be damned if I don’t feel an unjustified sliver of pride as he hands me the bag. I guess that’s how men feel when they’ve made their women pregnant. They know those cravings for ungodly food pairings are because of them, that they are the ones who planted them with their seed in their wives’ or girlfriends’ bodies, and they’ll move heaven and earth to get their females what they want.