The Woman at the Docks - Jessica Gadziala Page 0,30

to bed forgotten.

"He brought her four different things," Lucky said, shaking his head. "Like I said, kiss-ass."

"Easy," I told him, knowing the two didn't get on well, but not wanting any outward animosity among my men. It made us look weak.

We all talked business, compared notes about what everyone had learned so far. Which wasn't much, but it had only been a few hours.

About ten minutes later, I could feel the air in the room change, knowing that Romy had walked in behind me, making me turn to find her standing there in black leggings and a gray tank top, her hair falling around her bare shoulders.

No bra.

Which was made pretty obvious by the cold air and the thin material, making that desire issue rear up once again.

"Oh, hey," she said, looking off-put at the men gathered around her gaze going to me first. "I'm all done in there," she told me, giving me a small smile.

I gave her a nod. "Dario brought you some coffee options. Pick one out. I'll be back in ten," I told her, watching as her gaze went to Lucky, her second friendly face since Michael was off his shift, replaced with some guys she didn't know.

With that, I took a quick shower, reaching down, knowing I would never be able to think straight if I didn't deal with some of the desire already. With images of Romy in my head, it wasn't exactly a drawn-out affair.

I dried and dressed, foregoing a shave—uncharacteristic of me, but I didn't want to waste any more time—then heading back to the kitchen, finding Romy hopped up on the counter, her long legs dangling, a coffee between both hands, watching as Lucky flipped a frying pan in the air before settling it on the burner.

"Apparently, Lucky can cook," she told me, sounding amazed by the possibility.

He shot her a smile, shrugging. "My ma hopes I settle down with a woman who likes to cook for me, but she insisted that cooking was a life skill and her sons needed to know how to feed themselves too. You cook, babe?" he asked, reaching into the fridge for eggs one of the men must have brought with them this morning since Michael had only picked up a few bare essentials food-wise.

"Yeah. My mom taught me too. Different types of food than you learned, I think, but I make a mean Venezuelan specialty. They might even beat your chef's fancy bread thing from last night," she said, teasing him.

"Well, your cooking might surpass my chef's Panzanella, but it is not going to beat my omelet."

"Oh, come on. Everyone can make a good omelet," she told him, getting a hair tug from Lucky as he moved past her on the way back to the fridge to grab spinach, mushrooms, and mozzarella cheese.

"You're going to be eating those words, pretty thing," he assured her.

I'd had one of Lucky's concoctions. And I had to admit, they often rivaled even the most intricate meals from the women in the family.

I stood back, my black coffee giving me agita. Or, let's be real, the scene before me might have been doing that.

I was not a jealous man. I'd never been serious enough about a woman to feel that way. So it took me an embarrassingly long time to recognize the churning in my stomach and chest for what they were.

Once I did, though, there was no denying it.

It shouldn't have surprised me that Romy would take to Lucky. Women often did. From kids to elderly women, they all liked him. He was fun and charming.

But I guess a part of me didn't want that to be true with Romy.

I wanted her to smile like that in my direction, give her laughs to me like she did with him.

Did that make sense? Was this the time for things like that? No on both counts.

But it didn't change the truth.

I didn't even bother to excuse myself as they bantered about the proper way to whip eggs, walking back toward the front door, figuring I would go outside and talk to the new guard shift, knowing I needed to feed them a story but not the whole truth.

But as I pulled the door open, I froze, finding the last person I expected standing there.

Matteo.

There was a family resemblance. We had the same skin color, the same eyes, the same fit builds. We had the same dark hair color as well, but where I kept mine shorter and neat, he let