Page 68 of Chicago Sin

He blinks, lowers the gun. Says nothing.

“Jesus, Armando,” I let out on a shaky breath. When he still doesn’t speak, I say, “Listen, I have to go to the shop. It’s cool for you to stay here and slee?—”

But he’s already up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed and sending Shadow leaping to the floor and arching his little back.

“You don’t have to come. I think we’ve established now that I’m not going to talk, right? So I just need my phone, and I’ll get out of here. You’re welcome to stay.”

Armando ignores me, pulling on a t-shirt he produces from a duffel bag under my bed.

Okay. So I guess he’s moving in.

It shouldn’t make me happy, but it sort of does.

He dresses in seconds, strapping the gun to his leg before he pulls his pants on. He produces my purse and phone and the keys to the van—this time from the oven. He still hasn’t said a word when we walk out my front door.

When we get down to the sidewalk, Armando lifts his chin in the direction of the Starbucks on the corner. “You eat?” His voice is gruff and gravelly from sleep. Grumpy, even.

I don’t know why I find it sexy.

“No.” I’m sort of an erratic eater. I stress-eat at night but usually get too busy and behind for regular meals. Too bad missing meals hasn’t resulted in a Hollywood figure. But screw Hollywood. I’m curvy in all the right places. A fact that Armando seems to enjoy with abandon.

He cuts into the Starbucks and pulls out his wallet. His eyes are dead this morning. I’ve seen them dead like this before, but there’s a particular lights-out quality to them today. Or maybe it’s the empath in me picking up on the complete lack of emotion on him.

I keep thinking about that gun he pointed at me this morning. The menace on his face before he saw it was me. I felt emotion from him then—it was deadly. Like a trapped animal about to kill for his freedom. What kind of life has he led that makes him wake up and point a gun first thing? What happened last night? I want to ask, but I know he won’t answer.

Armando orders an egg sandwich and double espresso and turns to me. I order oatmeal and a latte. He pays again.

It’s stupid—it’s not that much money, but I like being out with Armando. Having him buy my meals and groceries. I like his take-chargeness. The way he didn’t ask or discuss fixing the van with me, he just took it to a shop and got it done.

It might annoy some women, but I find it hot.

There’s a sexy daddy element to him, and though I never knew that kink to be my jam, I’m starting to realize it is.

We take the food to go, and Armando drives again. I appreciate that, too. I don’t care if it’s my van, I hate driving in the city. I like someone else being in charge. I can simply eat my oatmeal, sip my latte, and stare out the window without a care in the world—if only momentarily.

He’s still completely non-communicative, and I don’t attempt conversation. I know lots of people who don’t like to talk in the morning, even if they did get adequate sleep and weren’t dealing with some kind of crisis all night. I’ll wait until he warms up again.

At my shop, we enter through the back door. Armando stalks through the place and opens the blinds on the front windows. Then turns around my open sign with the hours.

“What the fuck, Hannah?” he snarls.

I freeze. The menace is back—I sense it all the way across the room and it scares me. “What?”

He points at the sign. “You’re not supposed to be open on Sundays. What in the hell are you trying to pull?” He turns sideways, looking up and down the sidewalk through the front window.

Christ. Does he think I set him up? Like the cops are going to show up and bust him now? Or whoever’s trying to kill him?

Chapter Thirty

Hannah

I march over to him, partly to conquer my own visceral fear of him in this state and partly because I’m pissed that he doesn’t trust me. And pissed he scared me. “In case you didn’t notice, Armando, I can’t pay my rent. I have to stay open every minute I can, and that means working Sundays, too. I work every day. Every hour. It’s the only way I can survive.”

He blinks at me, some of the hardness in his expression falling away.

I stare back. “Don’t yell at me like that again. You’re scary when you’re mean.”

I expect him to be sorry. I want him to call me baby girl, pet my hair, hold me close, and promise to never be scary again, but instead he scowls. “Yeah, you should be scared of me, Flowers.”