He filled a piping bag and grabbed out a box of cannelloni, stuffing them expertly, each tube filled with the fragrant green mixture. One by one he lay them in the bottom of a tray until it was all filled up.
“Aspetti,” he murmured, flashing her a devilish grin that sparked hunger and awareness in her bloodstream. “I just need some passata.” He disappeared into the larder and returned carrying a large jar with a red liquid a moment later. “Yaya’s recipe,” he said.
“She makes it?”
“I make it,” he corrected with mock offence.
Isabella couldn’t help the giggle that escaped. “I still can’t really imagine you cooking.”
His face showed an approximation of hurt and then he turned his back, moving to the pantry and removing her apron from the hook she’d been using. “Does this help?” He lifted it over his head, tying it around the waist.
She tilted her head back on another giggle. “Definitely.”
“Cooking was important to Yaya. It was part of not letting us be spoiled. She didn’t want us thinking we could rely on a housekeeper, and so she made sure we could all cook. We took turns every evening, with Yaya teaching us recipes.”
Isabella considered that. “I wonder if she didn’t have an ulterior motive?”
“Like what?” He popped the lid off the passata and poured it over the pasta tubes, then added some freshly shaved parmesan.
“Well, it just sounds like she carved out some special time for each of you, one on one time, and made it easy for you to talk to her about life and any problems you might have.”
He lifted a brow. “None of us were big talkers.”
“Perhaps not, but you had the space to be if necessary.”
He covered the tray with alfoil then slid it into the oven. He’d put the apron on as a joke, but seeing him in it did something strange to her tummy. His sweater sleeves were pushed up to reveal inches of tanned forearm and something about that innocuous display of flesh set her soul on fire. There was something so intensely masculine about him, even in the apron, that all of her desires were invoked.
“That won’t be long,” he murmured, turning back to face her. His eyes held hers a moment longer than necessary then he was reaching into the fridge, pulling a bottle of wine out. She watched as he poured a couple of glasses, handing one across to her.
“Saluti.”
She returned the gesture, clinking her glass lightly to his then taking a sip. “What are we ‘saluti-ing’ to?” She pondered, as the sweetly acidic drink moved through her.
He frowned. “Does there need to be an excuse?”
Surprise flittered through her. “I—,”
He waited, watching as the realisation hit her.
“It’s a silly thing my mum used to do.” She shook her head. “I didn’t even realise I do it too.”
“What is?”
“It’s just, she always used to say, ‘here’s to—,’ and then say what she was grateful for, or hoping for. ‘Here’s to a better year,’ or ‘Here’s to this lovely new car,’ that kind of thing. I didn’t even know I’d picked up the habit.”
He nodded thoughtfully. “Then how about, ‘Here’s to…new friends’?”
Her heart stammered. Friends? Was that what they were?
She bit down on her lip, nodding slowly. “That works.” She clinked his glass again, holding his gaze. “Here’s to new friends.” She wondered at the sense of emptiness that was spreading through her at the sweet salutation. After all, wasn’t friendship a step up from what she’d been anticipating her relationship with him to be? Friendship was more intimate than two strangers who were having sex for the short time they were in the same house. Wasn’t it?
Her eyes drifted to the window, an unconscious frown on her face. She wasn’t aware of the way Gabe was watching her, his astute eyes missing nothing.
But all thoughts of friendship and sex, and of defining what they were, fled from Isabella’s mind when something she’d been aware of all day but not consciously comprehended until now.
Beyond the window, the trees were frosted in white and the mountains were white, but the snow had stopped falling – hours ago. The weather was starting to clear.
12
SHE DIDN’T WANT TO BE the first one to mention it, but by the following afternoon, the day before Christmas Eve, she knew that the lack of snow was something they’d have to address, sooner or later. She’d woken up hoping the blizzard would have started up again, disappointed to see that not only had the snow stopped falling but that the sky was a milky blue, the sun visible for the first time since she’d arrived at Il Nido.
Oh, it wasn’t warm, not by any stretch of the imagination! This was still deepest, darkest winter in the north of Italy, and yet without the snow, the weather was calmer, and the caution regarding flying was certainly a thing of the past.
And yet, reality still felt like something on the distant periphery of her mind. Inside his home, it was warm and cosy, the tree they’d set up twinkling with lights, the kitchen smelling of spiced baked goods and mulled wine, everything ticking a box for her of the perfect Alpine Christmas she’d always, always longed for.
To top it all off, they’d spent the afternoon watching Isabella’s favourite Christmas
