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Rory gazed at his pizza with appreciation and took her hand. “Let’s pray.”
After saying grace, Vi forked a bite of chicken and shut her eyes, savoring the warmth and flavor of the blended ingredients.
The subject of massage didn’t come up again.
After dinner, Rory took a swallow of coffee, made a face, then called for the ticket. They shrugged into their coats and carried boxes of leftovers.
“You ready to brave the wind?” Rory held her hand as they climbed the stairs to the street.
Sleepy from the cold weather, Vi dozed on the way back to Valiant. The bittersweet refrain of Trisha Yearwood’s “How Do I Live” woke her. The same song they had danced to at the gala.
Rory’s hand stole over hers. “You recognize it too? They’re playing our song.”
Not wanting to think about “their” song, she sat up, attempting to smooth her rumpled tam and sweater.
“Where are we?” The take-home boxes still whispered the ambiance of their time together. She tucked away the lovely memories of their stroll and dinner. The steady hum of tires whooshed on the highway.
Eyes on the road, Rory squeezed her hand. “Almost home. Not long now.”
Thirty minutes later, they pulled into the townhouse drive. Vi couldn’t believe he’d talked her into coffee at his place, but he’d promised to behave and not hound her for any more kisses. His words.
A cup of his cinnamon brew would be a pleasant way to end their perfect day. Maybe she could get him to open up about the massage issue.
The wind brisk, they wasted no time gathering food cartons and getting to the door.
“Maybe one smooch.” Rory teased, his hand on the small of her back.
“Rory, your kisses are to die for, but you said—” Vi stepped inside, then sputtered to a stop.
“Babe, we don’t have to kiss if—” He bumped into her.
An apparition floated up from Rory’s terrible couch. Vi stared at her. Medium height with a mass of tousled hair, her outfit accentuated every curve. Full red lips pouted. The mean girl from the gala.
“What are you doing here, Stella?” Rory sounded strangled.
“This place is as much mine as it is yours, Rory.” Stella’s low, sultry words aired a challenge.
“No. It’s. Not. You need to leave.”
Vi’s mouth hung open. She’d never heard him use such a harsh, uncompromising tone. Not when Silas hugged her. Not when a team member pressed his alpha button at powerlifting practice. An army of fears slammed into her gut.
Rory’s face flushed cherry red. “This is not how she’s making it look, Vi.”
“Of course it is!” Stella’s face flared with anger, then her features smoothed as if nothing had happened. A short dry bark issued from her throat. “I can see you’re in play mode.” She tossed a haughty glance toward Vi. “A redheaded girl? How … high schoolish.”
“Out, Stella. Now.” Rory gritted out each word.
Stella sashayed around the coffee table, hip-action on full display. Vi didn’t miss the look of contempt directed at her.
“Don’t believe a word he says, dear. He does this … often.” She slithered to the door. Vi could have sworn she heard a hiss.
Rory wanted to kick something. Vi looked shell-shocked. The foam carton crumpled under the pressure of his hand. He set it aside. On auto-pilot, he removed his coat and scarf.
He turned to Vi and took her carton, stacking it next to his. Marinara sauce dribbled onto the counter.
Ignoring it, he led Vi to the couch and helped her out of her coat. She sat, still looking dazed.
Troubled blue eyes riveted on him. “What was she doing here, Rory?”
