Chapter 8
The bodyguard pushed the wheelchair into her apartment and left, closing the door.
The lock clicked.
Grafton stood up immediately.
He stretched, his spine cracking. He looked too big for her small living room.
He walked around, touching her things. He picked up a framed photo of her mother.
"Stop touching my life," Francesca said. She rushed to close the blinds. "The paparazzi are always outside."
Grafton ignored her. He walked into the kitchen.
He opened the fridge.
"Empty," he said. "Do you photosynthesize?"
"I order in," she said.
He found a box of pasta and a jar of sauce in the pantry. Some garlic on the counter.
He took off his suit jacket. He draped it over a chair.
He rolled up his sleeves. His forearms were veined and strong.
He grabbed a knife.
He started chopping the garlic.
Chop. Chop. Chop.
The rhythm was perfect. Fast. Precise. Violent.
"You cook?" Francesca asked. She was leaning against the wall, watching him. It was surreal.
"I live alone," he said. "I don't like staff in my space."
He turned on the stove.
"Come here," he said.
"Why?"
"Tie this." He held up an apron he found on a hook.
Francesca walked over. She took the strings.
She had to reach around him. Her chest brushed his back. He smelled of heat and cedar.
She tied the knot.
He turned around in her arms.
He leaned down. He kissed the sensitive spot just below her ear.
"Good girl," he whispered.
Francesca shivered.
The pasta water boiled over. Hissing.
Suddenly, a fist pounded on the front door.
Bang. Bang. Bang.
"Francesca!" Julian's voice roared. "I know you're in there! Open the damn door!"
Francesca jumped. She nearly knocked the sauce off the stove.
She looked at Grafton with wide eyes.
Grafton didn't flinch. He sprinkled salt into the water.
"Hide," she whispered frantically.
"Why?" Grafton asked calmly. "I own the building."
"He'll see you standing!" she hissed. "He'll see the two plates!"
"So?"
"Please," she begged. She grabbed his arm. "Not now. I need time."
Grafton looked at her hand on his arm. Then he looked at the door.
"Get rid of him," Grafton said. "Fast."
He grabbed his plate of pasta.
He walked into her bedroom. He pushed his wheelchair in with one hand.
He closed the door.
Francesca smoothed her hair. She took a deep breath.
She opened the front door.
Julian stood there. His face was red.
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