“You just don’t exactly scream ‘give me an apron’.”
He laughed. “Gender stereotyping?”
“More like powerful-billionaire stereotyping,” she corrected with a small shake of her head. “Don’t you run one of the biggest companies in the world or something?”
She hadn’t known who he was earlier, but he’d told her his last name and now she did. Did that change things for him? No. Everyone knew he was a Montebello. That was nothing new. But he did have to admit he’d liked the anonymity her lack of knowledge had initially provided. His financial circumstances changed things. It had to. He was one of the wealthiest people in the world – there weren’t many people who could fail to be impressed by that.
“I run a sixth of it,” he murmured in agreement, moving to the fridge, pulling open the doors. Ciabatta, garlic, tomatoes. He turned to face her and caught her eyes staring at his rear. He grinned to himself, but to Maddie, he made a tsking sound. “You shouldn’t store tomatoes in the fridge, Maddie. You’re in Italy now.”
It was like her smile had been forcibly smothered. Her eyes assumed a look of something he could only describe as fear and an apology flew from her lips. “I didn’t know. I’m sorry.”
“I’m joking,” he rushed to reassure her. But her contrite statement was confusing and unsettling. She reminded him again of Dante, when he’d first taken the stray dog in. “You can store your tomatoes anywhere you want. But they are better when warmed by the sun and daylight.” He pulled all the tomatoes from the fridge, placing them on the table, purposefully not looking at her as he arranged them, because he wanted to give her a moment to compose herself. He wasn’t sure why she’d have such a strong reaction to a simple joke but she had, and he instinctively knew that she didn’t want him to read too much into it. He shelved it for later analysis and pretended he hadn’t registered her overreaction.
“What
are you making?” Sure enough, her voice sounded almost normal afterwards, only to Nico’s ears, there was an overbrightness to it that showed him she was still a little affected by his comment.
“Pappa al Pomodoro,” he lifted his eyes to hers, infusing his smile with warmth and reassurance. “Have you ever had it?”
She shook her head. “But really, you don’t have to cook…”
“I want to.” He stepped around the kitchen bench, bringing his body to hers, wanting to erase the last remnant of stress that filled her eyes. He pressed his forehead to hers, breathing her in. “I like to cook. And I like the idea of cooking for you.”
“You’ll let me help?”
“I’ll let you sing for your supper,” he corrected. “Your job,” he reached for her hips and lifted her with ease, placing her on the bench top. “Is to entertain me with stories. Understood?”
“Got it.”
“And tell me where things are,” he tacked on, pressing a kiss to her lips, standing in between her legs. It was a mistake. Kissing her made his body instantly crave more, and he felt the same desire swamp her. Her arms lifted and wrapped around his neck, her fingertips tangling in his hair, her breathing erratic.
He pulled away from her while he still could, because nearness was dangerous, temptation overwhelming. “Chopping board?”
“Over there.” Her words were husky. He smiled as he turned away, sure that it wouldn’t be long before they indulged this mutual desire. And there’d be no running away afterwards.
He pulled a chopping board from behind the stovetop, placed it on the table, then rinsed the tomatoes.
“So?” She sipped her wine. “What would you like to hear?”
“Let’s start with the basics. How old are you?”
“I thought I was telling a story, not being interviewed,” she responded drily.
“Is your age a secret?”
Her half-smile twisted something inside of him. “No. I’m twenty six.”
“Knife?”
She hesitated for the briefest moment. “In the drawer.”
“Grazie.” He pulled out the sharpest blade and returned to the tomatoes, chopping each until there were at least forty halves scattered across the bench top. “How many books have you written?”
“Written? Oh, about a dozen. Published? Two.” She held two fingers in the air. At his quizzical look, she shrugged her shoulders. “I started writing when I was a kid, finished my first book at thirteen. It’s a teen sleuth story, lots of angst and mystery and stormy nights that end in disaster for my protagonist. The stories became a little more nuanced as I got older.”
“Is that what you write now?”
She nodded. “More or less. I write a series of books for young adults. They’re mysteries, and my main character is a kickass school girl who isn’t afraid of anyone or anything.”