Wrong (A Bad Boy Romance)(71)

“Nick.” My voice doesn’t sound as weirdly loud anymore. “Are you okay?”

He turns his head slowly to look at me. “I think so. Are you all right?”

“Mostly.” I look back over my shoulder at the bakery. There’s not much more than a gaping hole left. Strangely my reaction is just…nothing. Numbness. I don’t know whether I don’t care anymore or if I care too much. “It’s all gone,” I mumble.

“I’m so sorry, Sarah.” He shifts to a sitting position on the sidewalk and opens his arms. I move into them and lay my head on his chest.

Suddenly I can feel everything. Every bump and bruise on my knees and elbows. Every cut on my hands, arms, ankles, and wrists. The screaming emptiness telling me my bakery’s gone, the dream is over.

And on top of everything—relief. Just pure, sweet relief. Because it’s over. All of it. Sal’s dead—he’ll never threaten me again. Nick is holding me—I know I’m safe here and always will be.

“Nick,” I say quietly. “Did you mean what you said?”

He kisses the top of my head, and he doesn’t even have to ask me what I mean. “Every word of it.”

I squeeze my eyes shut tight. “I love you, too,” I tell him, and let the tears come.





Chapter Fourteen

Sarah



“That was a half dozen bagels and a box of double-chocolate muffins?” I repeat the order into the phone and tally up a quick total on my iPad. “Anything else? We have cheese Danishes on special this week.”

A dozen cheese Danishes later I disconnect the call, smiling. Business is booming. With Nick’s help, I’ve added new equipment, a wider menu, and a storefront in a better part of town. I’ve also added catering services and pursued a hell of a lot more advertising.

It’s made a huge difference. Not just to the business. The knowledge that Nick’s behind me on all my decisions and willing to listen to my suggestions for improvements—not to mention investing in those improvements—makes an even bigger difference. Knowing I’m supported, that he has my back… It’s like nothing I’ve ever experienced before in my life.

I’m jotting down some notes about the day’s orders so far when I hear that telltale noise from my office in the back part of the bakery. It’s Nicky—little Nicky—fussing for his next meal. For once, the timing isn’t too bad, so I tell Mandy I’m taking a break.

Nicky’s lying on his back in a little porta-crib right next to my desk. He sleeps there during the day while I’m working. Sometimes, if Nick gets a break during the day, he comes by and whisks the baby off for an “adventure.” Today, though, Nicky’s all mine.

With the baby settled in to nurse, I close my eyes for a quick catnap. Nick told me this morning not to expect him back tonight until late. I assume there’s something brewing—I just hope it isn’t anything bad. Having a husband who’s the head of a crime family has its perks, but there’s a big downside, too.

But with Nick at the helm, even the organization seems to have settled a little. The tension isn’t as high—even I can feel that. So I’ve made up my mind to just enjoy life as it comes.

I’m tired when I come home at dinnertime, but not as blindingly exhausted as I’ve been for most of the not-quite eight weeks since Nicky was born. I ease him out of his car seat—he’s asleep, and I don’t want to wake him—and carefully settle him against my shoulder before I head into the house.

Something’s wrong. I can tell right away, and all my senses go on alert. There’s someone in the house, and there shouldn’t be. But then, as I move carefully into the kitchen, I realize nothing’s wrong at all. There is someone in the house, but it’s Nick, and he’s in the dining room, grinning at me as I come in. The table’s set with the good china, and the smell of the food he’s made suddenly floods me, making my mouth water.

“Nick. I thought you had to work.”

“Nope. I wanted to surprise you.” He reaches out for the baby as I approach, and I ease little Nicky into his arms.

“Well, you did that.” I take in the room—candles on the table, wineglasses and a bottle of sparkling grape juice since I’m still nursing and I’m not supposed to be drinking alcohol. Tears prick the backs of my eyes. “You made dinner?”

He shrugs. “I’m Italian. I do know how to cook, even though I don’t do it often.”

“It smells wonderful.”

“I hope it tastes good.” He hesitates. “Look… Sarah. I don’t want you to think I’ve got, you know, ulterior motives, but I thought maybe this could be…special? I mean…if you’re okay with it.”