Page 34 of Precious Hazard (Perfectly Imperfect #11)

“Hey, Greta?”

The housekeeper stops fluffing the throw pillows on the couch and glances at me over her shoulder. A muted rendition of a French chanson sounds from one of the earbuds dangling from the band around her neck. “Mrs. DeVille. Can I help you with something?”

“Um, yeah.” I clasp my hands behind my back. “I was wondering… would you be so kind as to make me lunch?”

She blinks at me in confusion. “Well, of course. What would you like to eat?”

“Anything home-cooked would be great. I’m not picky.” I give her a sheepish smile.

For the past two days, I’ve been living on bananas and cheese.

I guess I could have ordered a delivery or asked Riggo to drive somewhere I could get a proper meal, but I didn’t want DeVille finding out about it and asking questions.

The last thing I want is to have to explain to that dick that I’m scared shitless of the fire.

Any kind of fire, really, but especially the sort associated with gas stoves.

I don’t need him to think I’m a total basket case.

“I can make a simple pasta dish for you in no time. Or, would you like to have meat with it, too? It would take a bit longer to prepare, but—”

“Pasta sounds amazing. Thank you.”

I follow Greta into the kitchen, then perch in my favorite spot at the breakfast bar.

Someone moved the bowl of fruit from the living room, leaving it on the counter right next to the coffee machine.

As soon as that fact registers, I glance away from the bunch of fresh bananas.

If I don’t see any in the next decade, it will be too soon.

“Oh. Mr. DeVille must have read your mind,” Greta chirps while peeking under the tinfoil covering a deep baking pan left on the stove. “Beef lasagna. And it’s still warm. I’ll plate some of this for you.”

“Absolutely not,” I growl, then quickly clear my throat. “I mean… no, thank you. I’m not a fan of the combination of two sauces. Could you make me something else?”

Lies! I love lasagna. The layers of noodles, and meat, and cheese… Jesus, I can feel myself drooling.

“Oh, that’s a shame. You should share that with Mr. DeVille.

He’s very passionate when it comes to food, you know?

Frankly, I’ve never known a man who enjoys cooking as much as he does.

Other than on special occasions, when catering is more convenient, he always prepares his own meals.

No processed foods, of course. No artificial flavors.

Only fresh and organic ingredients. You won’t find any junky snacks or anything like that in his kitchen, that’s for sure. ”

“I’ve noticed,” I grunt. Damn psycho .

“One time, when he was hosting a business dinner here, he refused to serve an entire order of a dozen lobsters, all because they weren’t prepared well.

So he had one of the men drive an hour away, to a place Mr. DeVille approves of, and bring back fresh shellfish, which he proceeded to cook himself. ”

“Sounds exactly like him.” An anal-retentive perfectionist. “And where is the master chef now?”

“Oh, he was up at six sharp and headed to the office shortly after. Something about some permits that needed to be renewed ASAP. He did return a couple of hours ago, but just before you came down, I saw him get back into that big car of his and drive off with Riggo.” She tsks like a fretting mother instead of an employee talking about her boss.

“I’m worried about Mr. DeVille. He’s been working so much these past few months.

Always on the go. It’s unhealthy. He’s always been tireless in his dedication to his work, but not even he can function on so little sleep.

And I told him this morning that he needs to see a doctor about that cough of his.

But you know what he said? He hasn’t got the time.

” Greta shakes her head like all this is some grave tragedy, and hands me a cup of coffee.

After staying up way too late last night, editing Sienna’s latest manuscript, I definitely need it.

Oversleeping isn’t my norm, but it worked out great because I didn’t need to fake it for once.

My brain, though, was still fairly groggy when I finally got up.

When I thought I heard some muffled bark-like and wheezing sounds, I dismissed them as imagined or random noises.

Hmm, must have been Satan, coughing up a lung.

Whatever. He can drop dead, as far as I’m concerned.

“Men are known to be bullheaded.” I shrug, not having a better response for her.

“Maybe you could talk to him? With you here now, he’s bound to spend more quality time at home, right? You guys could go to the movies. Or a Broadway show, even. A picnic in the park is always nice.”

I lift an eyebrow. A picnic. With Satan DeVille?

“Or… maybe not a picnic. Mr. DeVille doesn’t like those, actually.”

I roll my eyes. Is there anything Mr. DeVille does like? “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Here you go. Cacio e pepe .” Greta sets a plate in front of me. “It’s my nonna’s recipe. Spaghetti with black pepper and Pecorino Romano. I hope you like it.”

“Thanks so much, Greta. You’re an angel.”

“Oh, it’s nothing. I hardly ever get to cook here since Mr. DeVille takes care of that himself. If you’d like, I can show you how to make it next time.”

My eyes dart to the stove, but I quickly avert them. “Um… I’m not a very good cook. A bit of a disaster, actually. So, would you be able to fix something for me tomorrow, too?”

“Absolutely. No worries at all.”

Greta stuffs her earbuds in place and disappears around the corner.

As soon as she’s out of sight, I start shoveling forkful after forkful into my mouth.

The simple spaghetti tossed in a buttery pepper and cheese sauce is…

different. Not entirely unpleasant. There’s just something off with it.

I don’t really care, though. After two days of limited options, I’m greatly thankful for some “real” food.

But my gaze keeps straying to the pan of Arturo’s lasagna, and my nose is tempted by the heavenly aroma of the dish.

It doesn’t matter! I’m not touching it, wouldn’t even if it was the last thing on earth left to eat. I can’t! Knowing Satan made it… for me… that’s unthinkable! Way too intimate, in my view.

Being a part of a couple that cooks for each other is one of the romantic notions I’ve always wanted to experience.

It’d mean we both took the time to get to know each other’s likes and dislikes.

That we shared a deep and meaningful connection, infinitely more intense than I ever intended to have with DeVille.

So I won’t let that man rob me of yet another special moment—having my real husband prepare food for me.

That, I will treasure and save for my real marriage, not this sham that I’m currently forced to live.

I will not allow Arturo DeVille to destroy yet another precious dream of mine. Won’t let him take it away from me. Giving in is not an option. Because some things taste too bitter while promising to be sweet.

***

“Crap.” I lower the drill and take stock of the results of my labor. There are exactly twelve shallow holes in the wall, all within an inch of each other, but none are deep enough to get a screw into.

After lunch, once I finished up with my editing project, I decided to tackle my next challenge.

Setting up the bookcase for displaying my collection of special editions.

It was moved here from my room at Drago’s but remained shoved in the corner of my new bedroom for the past two days, awaiting me finding an ideal spot for it.

And I have. The stretch of wall between the two French windows is perfect.

However, since the bookcase is over six feet tall, it needs to be anchored so it won’t topple.

No problem. I asked Greta to find me a drill.

“This damn wall must be made of concrete,” I gripe and press the trigger of the power tool again. “But I’ve faced more vile enemies in my life and prevailed.”

Attempt number thirteen proves to be as unlucky as I should have expected.

The drill bit encounters something just below the surface, and due to an unexpected kickback, I end up making a gash along the drywall.

The tool slips from my hand, falling to the floor with a loud thud.

And, because I engaged the trigger lock when my hand started getting tired, the drill keeps vibrating across the carpet like some convulsing creature.

“What in hell are you doing, woman?” a male voice booms behind me.

“Isn’t it obvious, DeVille?” I twist around so I can face the intruder.

I move too quickly, and the step stool I’m using wobbles beneath me.

I shriek and grab onto the nearby drapery panel to steady myself.

Immediately, a brief creak, and then a sharp snap emanates somewhere above me.

It occurs a split second before the entire curtain rod dislodges from the wall and flies toward my head.

I flinch and yelp, shutting my eyes. Bracing for the inevitable.

Before the thought of self-preservation even enters my mind, two strong arms wrap around me and whisk me away.

“You,” the deep, irritated voice hisses next to my ear, “are a walking disaster, Tara. A hazard to yourself!”

Gingerly squinting my lids open, I come face-to-face with my fuming husband.

He’s cradling me in his arms and glaring down at me.

There’s a big red welt on his forehead, right above his brow.

Worry for his well-being suddenly floods me.

He got hit with that damn rod! But it almost immediately dissipates as his words finally sink in.

A walking disaster.

It’s not as if I haven’t been called names worse than that throughout my various relationships. Dumb. Clueless. Melodramatic. Unhinged . To name just a few. So I’m not sure why Arturo calling me by one more hits me so hard. DeVille. I meant DeVille.