Page 14

Amelia---Sanctuary

I watch the second hand on the giant wall clock go tick, tick, tick as I run my finger across my lips. They’re chapped and peeling from my constant picking the last two days. The motion is soothing to my frayed nerves—until it isn’t. I should change. I’m in an old pair of leggings and a soft grey shirt; neither do anything for my curves. If anything, they only highlight the way my body rolls into itself; the winding way my contours lay is a reminder that I am the complete opposite of what a Mafia princess— queen —should be. I have never been thin, model-esque, or anything that tradition places superficial value on. No, my body is strong but it is plus size.

??Yeah, I should change.

Tick.

??Maybe put on a better shirt, one that isn’t so drab.

Tick.

??Or better yet, maybe I’ll just slip on a dress because first impressions matter.

Tick.

??No. I am not changing.

This is my home and I am allowed to wear what I want here. I’m nervous, anxious almost to the point of madness. Lennon knows how stressed I am. He’s been underfoot most of the afternoon and is now curled against my feet. I swear that cat knows me better than just about anyone.

Everything in me wants to text Rhodes and cancel. My head is screaming at me to renege on my offer. I learned a long time ago that listening to my head keeps me alive, and despite my heart aggressively whispering to stay the course, it is an internal struggle. I feel like I am at the precipice of a cliff, my toes gripping the edge, and a single burst of wind will push me over into a free fall.

I grab my phone off the charger and call Parker. She’ll know what to do. I hit dial and exhale the second she picks up.

“Let me guess, Rhodes is coming over and you’re freaking out.” There isn’t a hello, not a greeting uttered when Parker answers.

“I should cancel. Pretend to be sick or something.”

“Amelia. You are not canceling. No, lass.” Parker’s voice is laden with a quiet confidence. She will not allow me to retreat into my mind. She continues, keeping her tone firm. “Rhodes is going to come over for dinner, you’ll be fine, and Lennon will hate him. You are stressing over nothing.”

“He’s the first person I’ve invited home, Parks.” I sigh, the briefest moment of defeat leaking into my voice. “Am I making a mistake?” I pull my lip between my teeth, the need to bolt from the situation heavy.

“Ames. Breathe, babes. I know what this is, but I also know that you trust him even if your head tells you not to. Now, I am hanging up and you are going to make some tea. I love you.”

Parker hangs up and I stare at my phone. I know she’s right but I can’t help thinking about the repercussions of getting close to someone, let alone allowing a man into this space.

There is a knock on the door and I wipe my hands on my leggings, the clamminess reflecting the bundle of nerves tangled in my stomach. I close my eyes, taking a few cleansing breaths before turning toward the front door.

Rhodes is here. Fuck.

I glance through the peephole before cracking the door. My eyes immediately notice the way his biceps stretch the fabric of his shirt, his forearms are muscular and his right hand grips a brown paper bag. Hair that is normally tossed atop his head is loose, falling to his shoulders. Rhodes tilts his head, asking a silent question and I pull the door open further.

I take all of him in and suddenly my beating drum of a heart settles, the tangled bundle of nerves quieting. This feels right, having him here. I don’t want to unpack what that means. He’s brought dinner and it smells delicious; the smirk on his face apparently directed at whatever he sees when he looks my way.

“Hi,” I breathe as my hand clutches the blue door frame.

“Hello, Amelia.” One small step and suddenly his left hand reaches above his head and he leans into the doorway, close enough for me to see specks of green in his blue eyes and I lose myself in their depths. “May I come in?”

“Huh?” I startle, unaware of what he had just asked.

“Are we eating here, on your porch, or may I come inside? It doesn’t matter to me either way, I swear.”

“Oh.” I shift my weight, weighing the options. “You can come in, I suppose.”

I move back, giving him enough room to pass by me; the scent of leather and cloves dancing in his wake. Rhodes smells like comfort and safety, two things I am not afforded.

He stops just inside and suddenly my spacious place doesn’t feel so spacious. There is a dominance about him and he seems to command the room. I step around him, hoping that my home isn’t too much for him.

“The kitchen is this way if you want.”

I am well aware of the view I’m providing him and I try my best to not focus on my round ass or the way my upper thighs jiggle with each step. My hair is in its natural state, fully curled and a disaster of a mane. I’m the picture of beauty, I am sure.

We settle at the kitchen island, sitting across from each other as Rhodes starts to remove the items from the bag. It smells like Indian food and I am ecstatic when this is confirmed by the samosas in his hand. As we begin to eat, my nerves ease. The conversation is easy, and I feel like we’ve talked about everything under the sun at this point. It has flowed into a casual twenty questions and the takeout Rhodes brought is now halfway consumed. I’m relaxed.

“Your turn, Rhodes.”

His gaze is steady and his posture is relaxed. There hasn’t been a question yet that has fazed him. “What are your parents like?”

The question hangs in the air and I’m not sure how to answer it.

“My mother died when I was nine, and my papa did his best. He was always busy but tried to make sure I wanted for nothing and that I could take care of myself.”

“He sounds like a great man, Amelia.”

“He was. Despite being a powerful man,” I shrug, “at the end of the day, he was just my papa.” I don’t mention how being the daughter of a man known as The Grim Reaper hurt me growing up.

Rhodes takes another bite of his Pad Thai, deep in thought.

“What about you? What is your family like?”

“Dad was military, stationed in Poland. He met my mom at a local cafe one afternoon and was immediately in love. She came from a small village and wanted a better life for herself, so she was working to go off to school. Eventually, they married and she moved with Dad as his assignments changed. Then, when she was pregnant with me, he was honorably discharged. My mom died last year and my dad passed away three winters ago. I’m an only child; everyone else that is related to me still lives over in Poland.”

“I’m sorry,” I say between bites of my samosas. Gods, I love samosas.

He tilts his head before grabbing a napkin to wipe his lips. “I’m not. They were wonderful parents. I wouldn’t be the person I am without them.” He moves, putting the takeout containers in the bag he’d brought them in, before taking a look around my living room. As I scrutinize his movements, I feel my anxiety starting to creep in.

He runs his fingers against the back of the couch, rubbing the fabric of my blankets between his fingers; it mimics the same motions he did along my body the other day. Gentle, unhurried, assured. I like him here, the scent of him mingling with the comforts of my home. I catch him glancing at me as he picks up my faded pink cardigan from the coffee table. It is my favorite. Sure, it is a chunkier knit and no, it doesn’t have pockets. But, it does have a slouch to it and the sleeves roll up nicely.

“This is very much you, Amelia.” He brings it to me, his gait slow and measured. Reaching around me, he drapes it along my shoulders and smiles. “You are more relaxed here compared to the other times we’ve been together.”

“This is my home, Rhodes.” I squint, trying to circumvent the conversation.

“True, but you are different tonight. It’s like you’re on this razor edge. You are nervous having me here, but at the same time, you are more yourself than I’ve seen.”

“Maybe.”

“Maybe,” Rhodes smirks, the corners of his eyes crinkling, as he rubs one hand along his jaw. “I like this side of you, though, the best.”

I duck my head, hiding my grin as my hands reach for the hem of my sweater. “Thanks,” I whisper, “I like her too.”

He reaches Lennon, who is sleeping on the cushion of his favorite yellow armchair and places a gentle pet along his ears. The cat raises his head before chipping softly and going back to sleep. Weird, he normally hates touches from anyone but me.

“He’s stunning, Amelia.” I smile at his affection toward Lennon. Yes, Lennon is a gorgeous Maine Coon, but he is also a grump of the tallest order.

“He’s the best.”

I turn back toward the kitchen, unloading the dishwasher and attempting to hide from Rhodes. It is nearly ten at night; the hours have passed quickly and the conversation was not forced at any given moment. Maybe Parker was right. Having him here isn’t so bad and if anything, he’s been the perfect gentleman. I shouldn’t trust it.

“Do you need help?” His voice is loud behind me and I don’t turn around before responding.

“Nope. I’ve got it. Feel free to hang out with Lennon or sit at the island.” Footsteps retreat and I’m lost in my thoughts for a little bit.

Rhodes is here, touching my things. Lennon likes him…well, tolerates him. I’m not sure if Lennon actually likes anyone, honestly. Gods, he smells so good. Like the most dangerous combination of leather and clove—warm and sensual—and his hands. Those hands. He’s been so considerate all night and fuck, I just want him to snap. I want his hands on my body. Amelia, get it under control. You can’t let him in. He can’t stay. I want him to stay. He fits here, it feels like home with him here.

“Who is this?” he calls from the other room. I dry my hands before joining him.

He’s holding a picture frame with an old photograph in it and I know exactly who is looking back at him through the glass.

“That’s my mother.” Rhodes glances at me before returning his gaze to the gilded frame. “It was two weeks before my sixth birthday. We’d had a garden picnic. I remember the way she laughed that day; I swear sometimes I hear it echoing when I close my eyes. She was happy that afternoon. I was too.” A sad expression covers my face as I think about her. “She loved my father the best she could, and I like to think he loved her too.” I pause, reaching for the frame and running my index finger along its photograph.

“She sounds like a wonderful mom, Amelia.”

I smile in agreement. “She was.”

Setting the frame back down, I turn to him. I know it is getting late but I don’t want him to leave right now. It feels nice to have someone else here, in my safe space. I plop down on my couch, reaching for the blanket to cover my feet as Rhodes snatches it from me, fluffing it before letting it settle and placing my feet in his lap after he sits down as well. I laugh, slightly uncomfortable with the intimate position but I find that I’m not shaking at his contact.

We sit there for a while, sharing more stories—of adventures with Parker, and Rhodes sharing more of his background in the military. He shares stories of him and his buddies in the military, telling me that his callsign was Veles, the Polish god of the Underworld. My heart flutters at the thought of that; him being perceived as such and my ruling of the city’s underworld. Rhodes tells of stories where he’d get in cahoots with fellow soldiers but then demand nothing but the best from them. It doesn’t surprise me; he just has this air about him that is quietly commanding no matter the situation he’s in. Eventually, my stomach growls and I roll my eyes. Of course, it growls. I haven’t had my nighttime snack yet. Rhodes laughs and stands, reaching his hands out to help me up, his hands warm against my cool skin.

The kitchen is bathed in moonlight as we share a midnight snack of cinnamon sugar toast. Rhodes is across from me, his body hidden by the kitchen island, the maroon shirt stretching across his broad chest. There’s a mess to his hair, the slight curls falling along his brow before he pushes them back.

“What’s your favorite thing to make?” Rhodes asks in between bites of toast. I pause, slowly chewing before picking up my mug of tea.

“What do you mean?” My tongue darts out to lick a bit of sugar at the corner of my lips.

“If you could make one thing every day for the rest of your life, what would it be?”

I lean against the counter, finding comfort in the warmth of the green mug. It has a chip on the handle, likely from overuse, but I can’t bring myself to get rid of it.

“Anything?” I ask.

“Yup.”

My thumb skims the edge of the warm ceramic as I consider his question. “I make these cookies that, um, have chocolate chips and coconut in them with a bunch of other things.”

He looks up, his eyes ablaze in the dim room.

“Do they have walnuts in them?”

“Ummm, most times. I like them best with the walnuts because they add a little something extra, you know? No, of course you don’t know. How could you know?” I start rambling, feeling his eyes on me. “If I don’t have walnuts, then I’ll put pecans or peanuts, but they aren’t as good so I’m always a little sad when I make them like that. But that’s okay beca—”

He interrupts, “Those are my favorite cookies.”

“What?” I am confused. There is no way that his favorite cookie is the same as my favorite one to bake. No way in hell.

“My mom would call them pantry cookies. She’d throw in whatever bits and ends were in the pantry, before slapping my hand when I tried to eat them fresh out of the oven.”

I chuckle at the thought of a younger him getting caught with his hand in the cookie jar. I spin, looking for the Tupperware I’d left out earlier in the day.

“Do you want one?” I shake the tub, eyeing the couple left from the last batch I’d made. “They’re fresh and I’ll make more tomorrow. Maybe take the whole thing home with you?” I peer at him, suddenly shy and feeling extremely vulnerable. Silly girl—surely he wouldn’t want a probable poor comparison to his mom’s version.

“I’d love to.”??