His Mafia Queen

The Truth

RILEY

My eyes flutter open, and I'm relieved to discover I'm in my bed. My muscles feel stiff, like I've been working out, and I brace myself for either a wave of nausea or a massive headache.

Neither happens.

I turn my head from side to side, anticipating a brutal throbbing in my skull.

Nothing.

"Wow," I mutter aloud.

I sit up and take a deep inhale. The air in my apartment smells different. Usually it's slightly scented from my candles or my fabric softener. Today it's ... bacon? I also detect notes of toasted bread.

Last time I checked, my fridge was empty.

A soft clanging noise hits my ears, the sound of utensils against dishes. Who is in my kitchen?

The previous night comes flooding back into my brain. The bar. All that booze. Dancing.

Gabriel.

I scoot back down, pulling the covers over my head as memories of barfing in Gabriel's chauffeured car replay in my mind.

And then, Catherine. The visual of him standing in her gallery, of her calling him her "early muse."

Kill me now.

Here's what I don't understand: why is Gabriel still here? I assume it's Gabriel in my kitchen, unless someone snuck into my apartment while I was passed out and is cooking bacon and toast.

My stomach rumbles because I haven't eaten in hours. I certainly didn't eat anything before my binge drinking session last night.

"Babe." Gabriel calls out.

I hear footsteps on the wood floor, and the bedroom door opening. Oh God, he's been in my little, dumpy apartment all this time. He's seen the dirty laundry in the corner of my bedroom and the Styrofoam container of moldy garlic bread in the fridge.

I let out a long groan of shame. Especially compared to his tightly managed and curated luxury, my apartment is the equivalent of two-buck chuck wine.

"Babe? How you feeling? Hungover?"

I flip the duvet down and eye him suspiciously. "Why are you still here?"

"Let's talk over breakfast. Come." He holds out his hand. "I made all the things you like. Scrambled eggs, bacon, fresh juice."

I take it, reluctantly. When I stand up, I notice I'm wearing pajamas.

"When did I put these on?" I ask suspiciously.

Gabriel draws me into his arms. He smells like my soap. "After we took a bath. I dried your hair and put them on you. Don't you remember the bath?"

"Vaguely." I don't return the hug. Instead I stand there with my arms at my sides. "You didn't have to stay. Being in this apartment must be like slumming. I'll bet you didn't even live like this when you were in college."

"Oh, Riley." Gabriel kisses my forehead. "I adore you."

I scowl, and want to retort with something snarky, but I'm so hungry I'm shaking. "Did you say something about food?"

He chuckles softly and leads me out of the bedroom and into my combined living room-kitchen area. It's difficult not to ignore my bare, blank walls, when his are covered in priceless art.

The soft sounds of a female singer and acoustic guitar are playing on my wireless speaker. The coffee table's been cleared of all the newspapers, books, and notebooks, replaced with two place settings, flowers, and a carafe of orange juice.