“You’d fit right in with my family,” he drawled.
Her eyes widened but before he could interpret her reaction she sipped her coffee, dropping her face from his.
“They love Christmas,” he explained. “Well, Yaya does, and we do whatever Yaya wants. She has several trees throughout Villa Fortune – that’s where we grew up, and where we still go often throughout the year. All of the ornaments are the same ones she used when we were children, the recipes are family traditions. It’s loud and busy and full of noise.”
“That sounds like heaven.”
Gabe didn’t want to tell Isabella the truth – that for him, it was far more accurately described as hell.
“I’m making a risotto for dinner,” she said. “Would you –,” the sentence tapered off into nothingness and he was silent, waiting for her to continue.
She was shy again, their conversational ease evaporating entirely as she searched for the right words.
“I mean, no pressure of course, but there’s more than enough. If you wanted to eat together?”
Say no.
The denial hovered on his lips; he knew he should offer it. He couldn’t do this. Warning bells blared.
“Or not,” she said quickly, taking a step backwards, so he felt that she was pulling away from her and an instant desire to grab hold of her gripped him.
“What kind of risotto?”
As though that would make any difference.
“Saffron and champagne.”
He lifted a brow.
“It’s my own recipe. You’ll like it.”
Say no.
“But seriously, I get it if you just want to do your own thing.” She bit down into her lower lip, hurt clouding her eyes.
He needed to say ‘no’. Denying himself pleasure was his modus operandi, so why did he hear himself agree? “Fine. We’ll eat dinner together.”
Her smile was brighter than the sun. “Okay. Dinner. Great.”
It was just a meal, but Gabe couldn’t shake the feeling that he was selling his soul to the devil.
7
ISABELLA WAS COOKING DINNER for a group of celebrities on New Years Eve as part of a fundraiser and also to promote her new book, and she was a little nervous about it. It was a big charity event – tickets had sold for ten thousand dollars each – so naturally she felt anxious that it would go well. But that sense of nervousness was nothing compared to the butterflies that were fanning through her stomach at the moment. She dished the risotto into the bowls with care, aware the consistency was perfect, and the aroma exactly as she always made it. His eyes were on her, she could feel them as surely as if he were touching her, and it was making her blood pulse heavily through her veins.
She’d washed her clothes and redressed in the same thing she’d been wearing for days, pushing down on the silly desire to have something better to pull on – a dress or new sweater, at least. In concession to the event, she’d washed her hair and taken the time to blow dry it, so it hung shiny down her back, the colour of a dark cherry.
Her fingers shook as she shaved parmesan over the top of the rice, then as she drizzled a little olive oil.
“I’m nervous making risotto for an Italian,” she commented, aware that wasn’t even half of the reason for her nerves.
“It smells good.”
“The stock was excellent – you had a heap in the freezer. I hope you don’t mind that I used some.”
“Of course not.”
He was impossible to read.
She hadn’t expected him to come into the kitchen and talk with her that afternoon. She hadn’t expected to share so much of her history with him, nor to learn what she had about him. She hadn’t intended to ask him to join her for dinner and she definitely hadn’t anticipated his agreement!
Yet here they were, about to sit down opposite one another and eat a dish she’d cooked while thinking of him non-stop. Her pulse was going haywire.
“Risotto was a staple in our share house,” she said, hoping conversation might help her feel a little more relaxed. “It’s cheap, and I could play with a heap of different flavours.”
“What was your favourite?”
“This,” she gestured to the dish. “Though I did make a raspberry and white chocolate one for a friend’s birthday. She has celiac disease so needed something gluten free and we couldn’t afford almond meal,” she said with a nostalgic laugh.
“Sounds interesting.”
“It was really good, I have to say.”
She lifted the bowls, carrying them to the table, wishing she could hide the slight tremble in her hands.
He’d poured two glasses of buttery yellow white wine and as she approached the table, he held a chair out for her. Her heart thumped.
This wasn’t a date. It was the farthest thing from it. He was just being polite.
She placed the bowls down then moved into her chair, sitting down as he pushed it towards the table. She was sure it was unintentional, but his fingers brushed her shoulders and she startled, the touch simmering her as though he’d flicked her with a live voltage of electricity.
“Did you buy the tanker?”
His eyes crinkled when he was amused, but his lips didn’t budge. Getting this man to smile was no mean feat.
“I’m about thirty pages into a seventy-page acquisition contract.”
“Want me to take a look?”
He frowned for a second, and she wondered if he’d forgotten her law degree.
“Contracts were my speciality. If I’d practiced law, it would have been commercial, possibly commercial litigation. I love it.”
“Why?”
The question made her smile. “Because it’s so precise, and yet the nuance of language allows for endless debate, unless a contract is drafted absolutely perfectly. I loved trying to find a loophole or weakness.”
“Sounds fun.”
She laughed at his sarcastic rejoinder.
But a moment later, he was smiling too, a proper smile that made her stomach roll like she was cresting over a hill at speed. His smiles were rare but they were stunning – world shifting. “Actually, I mean that seriously,” he amended. “I like the precision of contracts too. I’m sure
