“Hi.” I hang my coat on the hook, but not before I notice the tumbler of whiskey on the table beside his laptop.
He goes to the cupboard and pulls out the bottle of cabernet we opened the day before. He pours a generous amount into a glass and hands it to me. “You look tired,” he says.
I take the drink. “You’re a sight for sore eyes, Tomasetti.”
“In that case, first things first.” Taking the glass from me, he sets it on the counter, then raises his hands to either side of my face and kisses me.
Even after living with him for almost six months, this kind of intimacy still feels foreign and new. It moves me and I lean into him, my legs seeming to melt beneath me.
After a moment, he pulls back and hands me the wine. “Hungry?”
“Starved.”
He turns to the stove and removes the lid from a small saucepan. “Leftovers okay?”
“You’re not trying to make up for leaving without a word this morning and avoiding me all day, are you?” I ask.
He looks at me over his shoulder and grins. “I thought I’d try.”
“It’s working.” I walk to the stove and look into the saucepan to see that he kept spaghetti warm for me. “Smells great.”
“Have a seat.”
I take my glass to the table and sit across from where he was sitting and sip the wine. It’s dark and rich and leaves my tongue with a happy aftertaste.
Tomasetti places a plate of spaghetti, French bread, and a small salad in front of me. “So how’s the case going?” he asks as he takes the chair across from me.
I give him the highlights, ending with a recap of my conversation with Blue Branson.
“You think he’s involved with the murder?” he asks.
“I don’t think so, but he’s hiding something.”
“Protecting someone?”
“Maybe,” I tell him.
He turns his attention to his laptop. I take the opportunity to wolf down the food. “You wouldn’t think less of me if I licked my plate, would you?” I ask.
“No.” He doesn’t look up from the laptop, but his mouth twitches. “But I might get turned on.”
Smiling, I rise and take my plate to the sink. “What did you do today?”
“I went to Joey Ferguson’s house up in Bay Village.”
I nearly drop the dish in the sink, and I turn to face him. “Are you kidding me?”
He types something on the keypad. “Nope.”
“Tomasetti, I don’t have to tell you that was a bad idea, do I?”
He says nothing.
But I’m not ready to let it go. “You can’t have any contact with Ferguson.”
His sigh holds a hint of annoyance that doesn’t come through in his voice. “I’m aware.”
“But you did it anyway?” My temper begins to spiral, an uncomfortable pressure in my chest that climbs up my throat like some clawed animal. I know at least part of what I’m feeling is because I’m sleep deprived and frustrated with my case. But the bigger part of me is angry because this man I love doesn’t seem to grasp the fact that his actions no longer affect just him.
Taking a deep breath, I reel myself in, focus on keeping my voice level. “Tomasetti, I know this thing with Ferguson is difficult. And I know you’ve suffered. I get that. But you have to let this go.”
“In a perfect world—” He cuts off the rest of the statement, but the words hover between us, so tangible I could reach out and snatch them from the air with my fist.
In a perfect world, my wife and children would still be alive.
While I hate it that he was hurt so horribly, that three people he loved were stolen from him by violence, another part of me wants to remind him that he has me now. My heart. My love. And that if his family were here now, he and I would never have met.
After setting the plate in the sink, I go back to the table and sit across from him. “Tomasetti, if something happens to Ferguson—”
“If anything happens to Ferguson, it’ll be his own doing.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I stare at him, refusing to acknowledge the pinpricks of unease on the back of my neck.
“It doesn’t mean anything.” He picks up the tumbler of whiskey sitting beside his laptop and sips. “I’m not going to do anything, so you can stop worrying. All right?”
“You’re going to his house. You’re talking to him. What do you call that?”
He doesn’t look up from his laptop. I see his eyes moving and I realize he’s reading, and that only pisses me off more. “I mean it, Tomasetti. This isn’t just about you anymore. The things you do affect me, too. It’s incredibly selfish of you not to consider that.”
He closes the laptop and looks at me. “Joey Ferguson is a piece of shit. He’s a murderer and a rapist and he’s going to continue fucking up people’s lives until someone stops him.”