Zoya Hart has been eluding her gold-digging stepmother for the last few years. Knowing that this woman will do anything to gain control of her and her late father's company, Zoya finds herself hiding out on a farm. Now, with a PI on her trail, Zoya'...
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When Zoya got home, Roman's motorcycle was nowhere to be seen. She didn't know if she should be happy or sad. Glad not to face him or depressed about postponing the inevitable. She knew his attitude concerning her living there, but she couldn't leave. Not yet.
Once inside, she released the cats and cleaned the laundry room. At least Roman had followed her instructions, right down to hanging the dishcloth over the faucet. She needed to make him understand how easy it would be for them to live together. If he followed her directions, she'd stay out of his way.
She removed his clothes from the dryer, placed his shirt and jeans on hangers, and then neatly folded his underwear and socks. They didn't look new, so that made her think he'd been out of prison for a while. Probably on the run. No, that couldn't be right. Nobody had shown up looking for him, so maybe he'd finally admitted his crime and gotten paroled.
Taking the package of meat she'd placed in the fridge that morning to thaw, she laid it on the counter. Next, she washed two potatoes and got them ready to bake. She could use the microwave, but Charamel convinced her they were better slow cooked.
Fifteen minutes later, while the steak fried, Zoya made a fresh salad. She'd be happy to get the garden planted. She'd never appreciated homegrown vegetables until Miss Charamel taught her the art of gardening.
Her phone buzzed, and the screen read Mariana. Zoya placed it to her ear. "Hello."
"Why didn't you call me about Roman?"
Zoya turned the meat and lowered the flame. "I'm sorry. Was his escape on the news?"
"No. He'd always claimed to be innocent, and the real criminal finally came forward. So his record has been cleared. He came into the store today."
Zoya smiled and removed the meat from the pan. Mariana was her first real friend in years. Most of Zoya's life, girls made fun of her. Name calling. Eye rolling. She had experience with people not wanting her around, and as much as she hated the treatment she'd gotten in school, she'd learned from it.
"Thanks, but I'll be okay."
"If you say so, but if not, call me."
Zoya clicked off. Roman was right; he was twice her size, but just because a man was big, didn't make him mean. He reminded her of Dad. Tall and strong, but with a gentle soul. She had to believe that about her new landlord. He'd listen to reason. He had to. From what Charamel told her about how he basically raised Ophelia, he had to have a gentle soul somewhere.
She took plates from the cupboard, silverware from the drawer, and set the table. From the backyard, she clipped some small twigs from a redbud tree and stuck them in a vase Charamel kept on the hutch. On the bottom, carved into the pottery, Roman, 1995. A Bible school project when he was a kid. It was one of his grandmother's most treasured possessions.
