Her expression softens. Something vulnerable flickers through her eyes before she controls it.
"I know." She rises on her toes, presses a quick kiss to my jaw. "Now GO. Eighteen minutes."
I go.
The shower runs cold because I don't have time for anything else. I scrub efficiently, noting the marks she left. Scratches on my shoulders, a bite mark on my collarbone, the hickey on my neck that's going to be impossible to hide.
Worth it.
By the time I'm dressed and downstairs, Angelina has already thrown open every window on the second hallway and in her room. The cross-breeze carries the jasmine smell out and fresh air in. She's changed into jeans and a soft sweater, hair still damp, face scrubbed clean of ruined makeup.
She looks younger like this. Softer. The armor not quite back in place yet.
"The vanity's a lost cause," she says, not looking at me. "I had to throw out the bottle and mop up the perfume with about seven towels. That bottle was a gift from my mother, by the way. She's going to ask about it at Christmas."
"Tell her you wore it all."
"In one month?"
"You were feeling festive."
She laughs, that rough, surprised sound I'm learning to crave, and throws a hand towel at my head. I catch it without looking.
The front door opens.
"MAMMA! We're home!"
Chesca barrels through the front door, Xander trailing behind with the weary expression of a man who's spent three hours entertaining an eight-year-old on a sugar high.
"Tesoro!" Angelina crouches to catch her daughter, wrapping her in a hug. "How was Uncle Sal's?"
"He let me have TWO ice cream cones." Chesca's voice is muffled against her mother's shoulder. "And Mr. Xander taught me how to arm wrestle but he let me win."
"I did not let you win." Xander drops onto the couch with a groan. "You're freakishly strong for someone who weighs forty pounds."
"I'm FIFTY pounds," Chesca corrects with eight-year-old dignity. "And you're just weak."
"Wounded." Xander clutches his chest. "Fatally wounded by a child."
Chesca giggles, pulling back from Angelina to survey the room. Her eyes land on me, standing by the kitchen doorway.
"Hi, Mr. Cole."
"Hi, Hime."
"Why does it smell weird in here?"
Angelina's face does something complicated. I keep my expression neutral through sheer force of will.
"Mamma spilled some perfume," Angelina says smoothly. "Made a big mess. Very clumsy of me."
"Oh." Chesca accepts this with the easy trust of a child who hasn't yet learned to question convenient explanations. Then her brow furrows. "Mr. Cole, what happened to your neck?"
Fuck.
"Training accident," I say, without missing a beat. "Your mother's been teaching me self-defense."
Angelina makes a strangled sound that she turns into a cough.