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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Roman wanted to kick himself. He kept letting this intruder get the best of him. But it'd been almost a decade since he'd had Charamel's fried chicken and Buko pie, and if yesterday's meal indicated his lola's training, his expectations were high.
Almost every dream he'd had in prison was of this place. Helping in the garden. Picking blackberries off the fence row. Swimming in the pond. Sleeping outside. As soon as the weather warmed, he'd do that again. Another thing he'd missed about freedom. A star-filled sky.
For now, he'd let the girl stay, but the cats were going first thing Monday morning. She claimed no attachment, but he'd bet otherwise. Getting rid of them might convince her to move on. That combined with last night's activities. He didn't understand why he couldn't just throw her stuff on the lawn and make her leave, but he couldn't. Something about the way she'd said she had nowhere to go stabbed his heart. He believed her. But she had all that money, so she could book a five-star hotel if she wanted. Wasn't like she'd be camped in alleys and dumpster diving for food.
Maybe the soft spot came from having every second of his own life dictated for so many years, or the threat of constant danger. He'd dealt with plenty of that. Prisoners who were bigger. Stronger. Older. No conscience. No regard for anything. That's what prison did. It took a person's humanity. It'd taken his for a while. His stomach clenched. If it hadn't been for Terrance, Roman would be a lifer for a crime he did commit. A chill ran up his spine.
There was so much that could hurt this girl; he just couldn't bring himself to force her out. That's why it had to be her decision. And from her expression when he'd seen her in the hallway, his lifestyle would make short work of her wanting to stay. He'd come from the room after Yasmin had fallen asleep. He knew he wouldn't be able to sleep. Needing a smoke always provided a good chance to get outside and take a breather.
He lit a cigarette, took a deep, uneven drag, and stared at the oak tree near the end of the porch. Once the lumber arrived, he'd construct a makeshift shower. All he had to do was build a frame, enclose it with tarps, and mount a water hose to the top. That would solve the problem of folding his body into the old tub and bathing around her schedule.
He finished his smoke, then went back inside to call and add to the supplies coming from Breaux Bridge. The pie was in the oven, but the girl wasn't in the kitchen. Just as he rounded the corner to his bedroom, she came out, and he jumped back in surprise. She looked like a Hazmat investigator gone crazy. Covered from top to bottom, she wore one of Charamel's old housecoats, the pink gingham with bright blue flowers, along with yellow rubber gloves, a dust mask, protective goggles, orange and green striped knee-high socks pulled over her shoes, and a Christmas scarf printed with reindeer, tied around her head. Extended away from her body as if carrying a bomb was a clothes basket holding his crumpled bed sheets.
"What the hell?"
Her voice muffled through the germ barrier and fogged her eyewear. "I've got to wash these. You need to empty your trash can."
