After talking with the cops, they confirmed a break-in and took inventory of what was stolen—her TV, her computer monitor that she connects to her laptop, emergency meds, most of her clothes, and a lot of pantry items. One small comfort was she kept all sensitive information in a secure safe, so the police were confident her identity wouldn’t be stolen.
With nothing left to do at the bungalow, I navigated us, per her request, to the In-N-Out drive-through, prepared to buy the franchise if necessary, whatever it took to put a smile on her face.
Two chocolate shakes, three large fries, and a Double-Double later, Frankie seemed tentatively comforted. But our trip to Lorena’s place in Echo Park, was the real fix. She hasn’t stopped smiling, cuddling Pazza, a massive black and white dog with keen gold eyes who stares at me in the rearview mirror, baring her teeth.
“Frankie?”
“Yes?” she singsongs right into the dog’s furry neck. “Who’s my good girl?”
Pazza finally breaks her glare long enough to turn and lick Frankie’s face.
“Your Musky looks like she wants to eat me for dinner.”
Frankie laughs softly. “This mix is called an Alusky, Søren.”
I try to ignore how much I like hearing Frankie say my full name. I’ve healed from most wounds sustained in the tough teen years, but the brutal teasing I got for my name is like the last aching scar that just won’t fade. Nobody calls me Søren, except Axel when he’s looking for a fight.
When Frankie says my name, it sounds warm, and when I let my imagination get carried away, I’d even say affectionate.
I pull into my driveway. “An Alusky.”
“Yes. And she doesn’t eat big, tough, hockey players. She eats grain-free.”
Throwing the car in park, I peer over my shoulder. “Well, I’m grain-free, too. This isn’t comforting, to hear your wolf is paleo.”
“She’s not a wolf!” Pazza nuzzles Frankie, gently knocking her back on her seat. Immediately the dog whines and drops her head to her lap. “I’m okay, Pazza.”
“Do we have everything she needs for now?”
Frankie smiles at me over the dog’s head. “Yeah. Lo made her enough food to last a few days.”
“You make her food?”
Frankie’s eyes narrow. “Yes, Søren.”
“Don’t ‘Søren’ me, Francesca. It was a question.”
“You repeated what I said.”
“I was just surprised, Frankie. I’m not judging.”
“Good,” she says. “Because feeding your dog fresh food is proven to increase their health and longevity.” Frankie kisses Pazza’s head. “I want her around for as long as I can have her.”
There’s tenderness in Frankie’s voice that I’ve never heard before. At work she’s brisk and no nonsense. But just like when I surprised her the other night bringing her that shirt and ended up sharing her takeout, it’s another side of Francesca Zeferino that makes me feel even more off-the-table feelings for her.
Which is disastrous. Super disastrous. I might not read romance novels as voraciously as Viggo, but I’ve picked up enough in my day to know that forbidden love is a messy trope, about as fraught a story line—besides love triangles and eff those—as it gets.
Exhibit A: Romeo and Juliet. Their love is forbidden, the timing is terrible, but they’re so infatuated with each other, they throw caution to the wind. Impatient courtship, shotgun wedding, miscommunication, hotheaded tempers, violence, missed connections, it all ends in the star-crossed pair offing themselves.
Yep. Forbidden love is the one to avoid. Which means, of course, that I find myself in the thick of it. Typical life of Søren Bergman.
I step out of my car on a sigh, circle the van, then slide open the back-passenger door.
Frankie eases out of it, followed by her dog. “Pazza, sit,” Frankie says.
Pazza drops to her haunches, tail wagging.
“Good girl. Ben fatto. Brava,” Frankie croons and scratches her ear. Her voice is low and cadent, like when she says Zenzero. It’s ridiculously hot.
Glancing up at me, she frowns, her eyes tightening with concern as she searches my face. “Everything okay?” she asks.
“Yep. Everything’s okay.” It’s so not okay. “You, uh, speak some Italian?”
“Oh. Pretty much fluent. My dad came over with my grandmother when he was five. So, I grew up speaking it with them. And I’m a bit of a polyglot. I love learning new languages.”
Great. Just great. The woman who’s about to be a guest in my house and for whom I harbor unrequited, inappropriately love-like feelings, also speaks a sexy Romance language.
The unbidden image of Frankie whispering Italian in my ear while her touch wanders my body practically blinds me as it soars across my mind, a fantasy with as little chance of a future as the dying star that bolts through the sky overhead.
I blink, shaking myself out of those thoughts. “That’s…impressive.”
“‘Pazza’ is Italian too,” Frankie says cheerily, bending to kiss the dog’s snout. “Well, her name is. Means crazy. Because she was absolutely nuts as a puppy—I’m talking psychotic. She was like the Energizer Bunny…” Frankie’s eyes dance my way, and she frowns. “You sure you’re okay, Ren? I guess this is a bit more than you bargained for when you offered me a ride home, huh?”
“Frankie, I’m glad to be able to have you here. Well, I mean I’m not glad your house was burgled.” I sigh and scrub my face.
A smile tips her mouth. “I know what you mean,” she says quietly.
“Right. Let’s get inside.” I take a step toward her, reaching for the heavy messenger bag weighing down her shoulder, but Frankie throws up her hands. “Wait, Ren! Pazza’s territorial…” Her voice dies off as the dog approaches me, sniffs my hand, and drags her tongue right along my knuckles.
I stand still, watching Pazza nuzzle me, before she makes a soft whining noise. She glances up and holds my eyes, cocking her head to the side.
“She likes you,” Frankie says quietly.
I break my gaze from Pazza and look over at Frankie. “Seems like a friendly dog. Doesn’t she like everybody? Besides the delivery guy.”
“Nope. She’s cautious around everyone except Lo and Annie. She’s okay with Tim, warming up to Mia.”
“Well, then I’m honored.” I scratch Pazza’s other ear and smile at her. “That’s a nice club to be a part of.”
When I glance up, Frankie’s watching me curiously, a small smile tugging at her mouth until it morphs into a reluctant yawn.
“Come on, Francesca. Let’s get you and Pazza tucked in.”
I wake up to faint sunlight, early, like always. The house is quiet. No clatter of dog paws, no soft noises I might expect if Frankie was awake. Throwing on a pair of gym shorts and a T-shirt, I walk by the guest bedroom I set up for her. The door’s closed.
In the kitchen, I notice my Nespresso machine was used, and a solitary spoon sits by the sink in a small caramel puddle. Milk with coffee. Exactly how Frankie likes it. Cream, if it’s available, one sugar.