Page 32

T he bell rings again, snapping me out of my thoughts.

I open the door, and Benny is standing there, arms full of takeout bags.

“Ma’am,” he greets politely. “Shall I bring the food into the kitchen?”

“Oh, um, no thank you,” I say quickly, reaching for the bags.

Before I can grab them all, Clementine and Lucy are right there beside me, swooping in and taking some of the bags from Benny’s hands like a well-oiled unit.

“Thanks, man,” Clementine says casually, and Lucy nods in appreciation before we step back inside, making the entire thing way less awkward for me.

I close the door, exhaling as I lock it behind me.

Clementine nudges me lightly with her elbow. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” I say, though it sounds half-hearted even to my own ears. I shift the weight of the bags in my arms before sighing. “I mean, I’ve just never been here alone before, and even though I know some of the security guards, I, uh, don’t really want them inside when I’m here alone.”

I wince. “Is that dumb?”

“What? No. Not at all,” Clementine says, her answer immediate and emphatic. “Connor doesn’t allow anyone in the house when I’m there alone. I bet Sammy is the same. In fact, you should ask him.”

I nod slowly, already feeling a little better.

She’s right. I should ask Sammy.

“She is right, you know,” Lucy chimes in. “Dad is very particular about our bodyguards. He never allows them inside unless he’s home.”

“Really?” I glance between them, relief washing over me. “Good. I don’t feel so weird about it now.”

Lucy smirks. “You’re not weird, Aella. You’re married to a Ramirez. Get used to wanting extra security.”

I snort, shaking my head, and we carry the food into the enormous dining room.

By the time we start opening up the bags and laying everything out, the smell is intoxicating. Warm, savory spices, fresh herbs, rich sauces—every scent mixing together into something incredible.

“Oh my God, I am so happy right now,” Clementine moans dramatically, tossing her head back like she’s about to have a religious experience. “I love food.”

Her wild red curls bounce behind her as she sniffs the fragrant air.

I chuckle, glancing at the way too many bags on the table. “I might have gotten carried away.”

Andrea mock-whispers, “Aella, two of the people here are pregnant. You’re lucky if we even get any food at all.”

A round of feigned indignance ripples through the room as the girls playfully argue over which of the pregnant ones—Micky or Clem—will eat the most before the rest of us even get a bite.

And just like that, I forget all about my worries.

For now, I let myself enjoy this.

The laughter, the food, the company of women who feel more like sisters than just friends.

This moment.

This night.

All of this makes it feel like my home now.

And I really need that.

I settle deeper into the plush couch, letting the warmth of their energy surround me, filling up the spaces inside me that have been restless and uncertain ever since I married Sammy.

This is good.

This is real.

And I love it.

By the time the last spring roll, garlic knot, and bao bun have been devoured, we migrate to the massive living room.

It’s a stunning space, no doubt about that—huge, round, and lined with floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook the sprawling brick patio.

The patio is clearly an extension of the kitchen’s outdoor space, a seamless flow between the two, but despite its beauty, there’s something clinical about the room.

Like it’s not lived in.

Like Sammy doesn’t really use it.

And I don’t like that.

I want this room to feel warm. I want it to feel like ours .

So, as I glance around, taking in the neutral furniture and the lack of personal touch, I start mentally decorating.

Plans take shape in my head. Cozy throw blankets, oversized pillows, some vibrant, hand-picked art pieces, a bookshelf stocked with stories Sammy and I can curl up and read together.

I will put my stamp on this place.

I will make this house feel like home.

For both of us.

Michaela flops onto the couch beside me and snatches up the remote, wiggling her brows mischievously.

“Okay, so here, I got you something,” she says, and hands me a small gift bag.

I know she was critical of me and Sammy getting together in Vegas and maybe this is her idea of an olive branch.

So, I take it, and I’m surprised when I see a fancy notebook and pen inside. The paper is special. Color-coded. The markers are fine point, but the ink is bold and black.

“Now, I know you like to do things your way, but I was hoping this would help you while you contemplate what changes you want to make to the house.”

“Oooh, is that like an interior design planner?” Leanna asks excitedly and I hand it to her.

“Thank you so much, Micky. I love it.”

She’s pregnant and emotional, but I’m still a little surprised when she pulls me in for a hug and sniffles.

“I’m so sorry I was an ass in Vegas. I am really very happy for you both.”

“It’s okay, Micky,” I tell her.

“Okay, no more of that. You’ll have me balling next then my nose will puff up like a freaking balloon,” Clem scolds and sniffs loudly.

“Okay, okay.” Micky grins. “Now, I’m a city condo girl,” she says, scrolling through the streaming services, “but I’m obsessed with this home improvement show.”

She quickly finds From Wreck to Stunning and hits play.

The second the intro starts, Andrea lets out a knowing snort.

“Oh, yeah, sure you watch this for the interior design tips,” she mocks, her voice dripping with sarcasm.

Right on cue, the host, Duke Anthony, fills the screen.

A hulking, silver-streaked man with rugged good looks, a devil-may-care smirk, and an Aussie accent so thick it could melt steel.

“Oh my God, Michaela,” Leanna bursts out laughing. “You’re such a thirst goblin.”

Michaela doesn’t even pretend to be offended.

“First, I am a happily married woman, and my husband is fine as fuck. Second, I am human and married doesn’t mean dead. I can appreciate fine craftsmanship,” she says, fluttering her lashes dramatically.

Andrea rolls her eyes. “That man sure as hell is fine craftsmanship.”

I grin, listening to them tease each other over the undeniably handsome host, but honestly?

He’s got nothing on my Sammy.

Still, I settle in, cozy and content, as the room fills with easy conversation, laughter, and the mindless comfort of a home improvement show no one is actually watching.

By the time the seventh episode ended and the last of the leftover snacks had been eaten, the house was quiet again. Midnight had come and gone, and the air outside had turned crisp with early spring rain.

I like watching it fall from the window wall, which I’ve since learned has a special sort of one way glass to it so others can’t see in. There’s something that also controls the glare from the sun during the daytime.

It’s actually quite amazing.

I hug my notebook to my chest, flipping through the pages already half full of ideas.

Ideas for our home.

I know the changes I want to make already. Bright citrus colors for the sterile, modern living room. A softer, more inviting couch big enough for lazy mornings curled up with Sammy.

Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves—which given my dyslexia might seem stranger, but the truth is I love books.

Maybe even a rolling ladder for extra drama.

We already have a ridiculously awesome entertainment system and ninety inch screen TV.

And I wonder how Sammy feels about video games. He doesn’t seem to have a system set up, but I used to play quite a bit and I think it might be fun.

There’s a working fireplace that I want to keep. And the polished wood floors are stunning. But I wonder if he’d mind an area rug just in front of the fire.

Then I think about romantic evenings spent lying there together. And the thought made something warm settle deep in my chest.

I want so badly to share all this with him, but he isn’t here. Something that brings a sharp slap of pain to my heart.

Sammy has his reasons I’m sure, and maybe he’ll tell me later. I mean, I hope he does.

I want him to know he can tell me anything.

I want him to know I’m not going anywhere.

Not ever.

Of course, that would all be easier if he knew how I felt.

And that’s on me. I know it is.

I sigh and stretch, weary now that tomorrow is here.

Most of the girls had left earlier in the night, but Andrea is the last hold out.

At first, I thought she was just reluctant to leave. But now, as she sits on the couch across from me, fidgeting with the hem of her sweater, I realize there’s something on her mind.

I don’t press.

I won’t press.

But she’s not fooling me either.

“Did you want to stay over?” I ask instead, stretching my legs out on the ottoman.

My body aches with exhaustion, but it’s the good kind. The kind that settles in after a night filled with laughter and warmth.

Andrea stretches, rolling her shoulders before shaking her head.

“Nah, I’m gonna head home.” Then she glances at the mess we made, abandoned plates and empty takeout containers scattered over the coffee table. “Want help with all this?”

I smile. “I’ll clean tomorrow.”

Still, I gather a few dishes and follow her to the kitchen, setting them down on the counter.

“I should let security know you’re leaving.” I pad over to the wall intercom, pressing the button.

A crisp, professional male voice answers almost immediately.

“Can I help you, Mrs. Ramirez?”

Andrea snorts beside me, barely containing her laughter as I pass along the message.

When I turn, she’s grinning, arms crossed.

“Yes, um, Miss Ramirez is leaving so be sure to open the gates for her.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Oh my God. You’re younger than I am, and they call you ma’am?”

I laugh, shaking my head. “I know, right? The first day, I told Santos to call me Aella. Figured there was no need for all that formality.” I pause. “But Sammy intervened.”

Andrea quirks a brow. “And you let him get away with that?”

I should have fought harder. I should have insisted on something less official.

But the way Sammy said it? The way his voice dropped, laced with something dark and possessive when he corrected them?

God help me. It was hot.

Andrea just shakes her head, laughing softly. Then her expression changes.

The amusement fades, and something else takes its place— something heavier.

She hesitates, exhaling slowly.

“Look, I just wanted to say I’m glad you and Sammy are together.”

A pause.

“But?”

She presses her lips together.

“But, well, just don’t hurt him, Aella, okay?”

There’s something in the way she says it that makes my chest tighten.

I blink, stunned by the raw emotion in her voice.

“I would never hurt him, Ann.”

She searches my face, like she’s trying to find some hidden truth in my expression.

“I know you say that. But you don’t understand.”

She exhales sharply, like she’s trying to steady herself.

“When he enlisted, we were all terrified. And when he came home after his first major ops, something inside him changed. He doesn’t talk about it, but I know.”

I do understand.

More than she realizes.

“I worried about him then, too,” I admit, my voice softer now. “When my parents were talking about him going into service, I cried for a week. Went to church. Lit candles.”

Andrea’s eyes widened.

“Yeah?”

I nod.

And when a single tear slips down my cheek, I don’t wipe it away.

Because I remember those nights.

Lying in bed, staring at my ceiling, praying he’d come home safe.

Wondering if he even thought about me while he was over there.

Andrea sniffs, then— before I know it —she steps forward and pulls me into a tight embrace.

“I’m glad to hear that. I know how much he cares for you,” she murmurs, voice thick.

“I do too,” and for the first time, I acknowledge that truth.

Sammy loves me.

I’m sure of it. And acknowledging that is better than chocolate cake.

“I hope you don’t mind me butting in. He’s my big brother, Aella. I love him. I worry about him.”

“I worry about him, too,” I whisper and squeeze my eyes shut, swallowing hard.

“And he’s always been so solid. So strong and solitary.” She pulls back, eyes glistening. “But even the strongest of us have weaknesses. Sammy deserves someone who really cares about him.”

My heart aches.

I take a shaky breath and give her the one truth I haven’t said out loud until now.

“I’ve loved him my whole life, Andrea.”

Her lips tremble, and she gives a jerky nod.

“Good.”

Another tear slips down my cheek, and she wipes it away, sniffling.

“Take care of him, okay?”

I nod. “I’ll try. For however long he lets me, I’ll try.”

Her brows furrow at that last part, but before she can say anything, the sound of the side door closing makes us both freeze.

A presence looms in the entryway to the kitchen.

When we turn, Sammy is standing there.

Head tilted.

Expression unreadable.

His sharp, penetrating gaze sweeps over the two of us— two blubbering messes wrapped in each other’s arms.

His voice, low and edged with something quiet and dangerous, breaks the silence.

“You two alright?”

Andrea and I jump.

Hard.

“Jesus, Sammy!” Andrea yells, pressing a hand to her heart. “You scared the shit out of me!”

He smirks. Unbothered. Cool as ever.

Andrea huffs, striding toward him to kiss his cheek before grabbing her purse.

“Thanks for having us over, Aella. I had the best time.”

Sammy’s still looking at me when he asks, “You need me to call a driver for you?”

His voice is even.

Too even.

Like he maybe knows something just happened.

Like he maybe heard something he wasn’t meant to.

Andrea shakes her head.

“I’m good. G’night, you two.”

The moment the door closes behind her, silence stretches between us.

Sammy doesn’t move.

Doesn’t blink.

His gaze is locked on mine.

Heat creeps up my neck, my pulse kicking up.

He heard something.

I know he did. I swallow hard.

And I wait.