“I can have Maria stock the beverage cooler for you.”
“Where might that be?”
He tilts his head to the back of the kitchen, an area I hadn’t yet explored. I turn a small corner, and it opens to a butler’s pantry the size of a small house. There are two eight-burner ranges, three wall ovens, more cabinets, and two sub-zero refrigerators not disguised by cabinets.
“Do a lot of entertaining, do you?” I open the first fridge and strike gold. Taking out a water bottle, I uncap it and chug half of it in a very unladylike manner. It is too much fun annoying Stone.
“Mr. Parlatore, Miss Smith, can I bring anything to the table for you? Or the counter?”
Without taking his gaze off me, he says, “You can bring my lunch to the kitchen as well.”
She nods and leaves as quietly as she had entered.
I carry my water back to the kitchen and return to my seat. Surprisingly, Stone pulls out a stool next to me. Maria sets his plate in front of him, and glasses of wine for both of us, then hurries off.
“Slumming it. Wow. Your staff is going to think you’re whipped.”
“Whipped?” He cuts his chicken with precision and twirls a forkful of pasta around the bite, bringing it to his mouth with the patience of Job. “Is that another American term you picked up?” he asks before taking the bite.
“I guess.” I can’t remember what I’d picked up from conversation and what I read, but I worked hard to lessen my accent and to fit in. From time to time, I still slip up and use Italian slang, but I limit my small talk and don’t have friends, so I don’t have to worry too much.
I studied American television and movies when Mama slept, crafted my words around the current culture and slang, and worked to fit in the best I could. Standing out would get me killed. It was bad enough Mama’s Italian tongue was so strong. She didn’t see too many people, but I still worried.
All. The. Time.
Until today. Getting to talk to her and seeing how happy she is lifted the heavy burden on my shoulders. It gave me the confidence to face this, to face Stone, head on. I’d buried my personality when I ran away, and it felt invigorating to bring it back. My sass often gets me in trouble with Mama, and I always hid it from my father, afraid of his wrath. It is really fun—and a little refreshing—to lay it on Stone.
“You really like that stuff?” He points his fork at the broccoli on my plate.
“It’s my favorite. I asked Maria to make it with every meal.” I cut into my chicken and nearly moan when it hits my tastebuds. The sauce is light and refreshing. Lemon, garlic, and capers. “Salads are good too.”
“For rabbits.”
“Says the man who ordered a pear and arugula salad less than a week ago.”
“I didn’t eat the lettuce.”
I think back to the diner. “So why order it?”
“The same reason you use your American lingo.”
So much for being coy with my strategies. “Well, it didn’t make you fit in,” I lied. “A guy like you doesn’t order a salad like that.”
“What does that mean?”
“A burger and fries would’ve made you blend in. You’re not...pretty enough to order a salad as a meal.”
“Pretty?”
My cheeks burn. I need to stop talking. I’m not used to having conversations with men, especially not with a man like Stone.
I take a hefty sip of my wine. “This is good. Yours?”
“Of course.”
“Right. Because you’re too chauvinistic to drink a competitor’s wine.”
“It has nothing to do with chauvinism and everything to do with wanting the best.”