“How did you know this?”
“He started drinking,” she said with a lift of her shoulders. “He told me how he felt one night.”
“I’m sorry.” He was surprised by the quick response, and more so by the genuine sympathy underpinning it.
“He apologised the next day, but the damage was done. I was eight years old.” She placed her coffee cup down on the bench but kept one hand curled around the mug, her eyes lingering on the caramel coloured surface. “After that, things were different between us. I felt like a stranger in our home. I was very conscious of not being wanted, of nothing I did ever being good enough. He was polite and civil, but he didn’t love me.”
She said the words calmly, but he narrowed his eyes, scanning her face for signs of how that must have made her feel, as a little girl. An unexpected rush of pity flooded him.
“He lost his job a few months after mum died. He had to sell the house. We moved into an apartment in the next suburb, but he fell behind in rent pretty quickly. The apartments got smaller, dingier, food more and more scarce. I changed school three times in one year, and that’s when social services got involved.” She sipped her coffee again, her face so uncharacteristically sad that he ached to do something to cheer her. The feeling was foreign to him; he pushed it aside.
“I was put into foster care a year or so later. I hated it.” Her lips formed a grimace.
“Why?” It was a question asked simply to keep her talking; he didn’t need her to elaborate. He could imagine any number of reasons a person might dislike foster care.
“It was just more of the same – feeling like an unwanted stranger in other people’s homes.” Her smile was a ghostly imitation. “Kind of like this, actually,” she remarked softly.
It was like having a weight crushed to his chest. His behaviour – making her feel unwelcome – hit him hard. He’d been pushing her away, intentionally making her feel as though she were a major inconvenience to him without having any idea that he was reopening wounds of her fractured childhood.
“I’ve explained that,” he said darkly. “It has nothing to do with you. This is just the way I am.”
“I know.”
But so did he, now. He was no different to her father, pushing her away for no fault of her own. He cracked open his beer and mirrored her position, hip casually pressed against the benchtop, watching her, close enough to touch her, challenging himself not to.
“I went through a few foster homes before I settled somewhere semi-permanent.”
He frowned, imagining what that must have been like. At least he was taken from his parents as a baby. His home life had been stable – Yaya and Gianfelice were, to all intents and purposes, his parents. “My foster mum was a great cook. She made everything from scratch; I mean, everything. Bread every morning, cakes, cookies, curries. Her garden was small but completely designed for produce. She rotated the beds seasonally and I helped. I liked it.” She lifted her shoulders.
“She taught you to cook?”
“My adoptive mum did,” she said with a small shake of her head. “But then Olivia – my last foster mum – sort of cemented that.”
“And then what?” He prompted.
“What do you mean?”
“How did you go from being someone who helped cook to being a professional chef?”
“Oh,” her nose crinkled. He ached to kiss the tip of it, so tightened his grip on his beer. “I’m not a professional chef at all.”
He lifted a thick, dark brow. “No?”
“God, no.” She laughed softly and it was like the sun shining from behind a cloud. He felt the mood in the kitchen lift by a magnitude of ten thousand. “I actually studied law at uni.”
Gabe was rarely surprised, but her remark wasn’t what he’d been expecting.
“So how did all this come about?” He prompted, gesturing to the kitchen.
“Well, I moved into a flat with four other girls. We were all broke as a joke, studying as much as we could, and we needed to come up with recipes that were super budget friendly – and yummy. I loved it. I ended up taking a cash contribution from each of them, each week, and making all the meals. After a while, I started to blog the recipes, and the blog was a runaway success, but people started to ask for videos, which led to the YouTube channel and the rest is history, I guess.” She twisted her lips to the side in a gesture he found distractingly sexy.
“You have a heap of subscribers.”
“I know. It’s completely crazy. It started off as a bit of fun and then bam! Before I knew it I had my first million followers and companies begging me to use their products. I never considered it could be a career.”
“So you didn’t actually practice law?”
“No. I finished the degree because I really loved it, and I got good grades,” she said. “Plus, there’s security in having the degree.”
“And security’s important to you.” He could understand why it would be, after what she’d been through.
“Isn’t it for everyone?”
She nodded. “I wanted to know that if everything with my books and YouTube stuff dries up, I can always fall back on a corporate job.”
“Books?”
“Oh, recipe books,” she said casually. “I’ve released a few. I’m working on one at the moment, actually, so this trip is partly research.”
“I’m impressed.”
“Don’t be,” she said with a wave of her hand. “It’s really just good luck.”
“It sounds like talent and hard work.”
He saw the warmth in her eyes at that compliment and felt a corresponding heat spread through him. He liked making her feel good. “Maybe a bit of that too.”
Silence fell between them, a silence that was heavy with feelings – awareness, chemistry, and a strange understanding that was almost like familiarity.
“My mum – adoptive mum – loved Christmas.” She spoke quietly, almost shyly. “It’s one of the clearest memories of the few years we had together. She made such a big fuss, Gabe. Every year was like magic…I can’t explain it.”
He couldn’t look away from her face. Magic was the best word to describe it. Her eyes twinkled, her mouth smiled, every part of her glowed.
“She’d buy the biggest tree – always a real one, never plastic – and we’d decorate it together over the course of a whole day. She’d play carols, always the same album, and make mince pies and egg nog. Christmas is in Summer in Australia, but she’d pump the air conditioner so we could rug up in ugly sweaters. Dad thought it was hilarious. I think of her a lot, but especially at Christmas.”
Suddenly, his desire to vanquish the makeshift Christmas tree from the kitchen felt petulant and childish. He could go back to hating everything about this time of year once Isabella was gone. For now, he’d say nothing. She deserved some festive magic.
“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 shou
ld 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 it’s why the others get me to check all the documentation before we sign.”
“So that’s your role?”
He shook his head, and the smile dropped. “We all do various things.”
“Is it what you wanted to do when you were a child?”
He frowned, reaching for his fork. She caught her breath as he held it over the rice.
“I was raised knowing it would be my job, I suppose. I never gave any other career a moment’s thought.”
He pressed the fork into the risotto, but didn’t yet bring it to his lips.
“You don’t strike me as someone who’d have his future dictated to him.”
He was silent as he pushed the fork into his mouth. She held her breath, anxious beyond bearing that he should like the risotto, even when she knew food was completely subjective and his disapproval wouldn’t indicate that the food was in any way substandard. Yet she wanted him to like it more than she could say.
He swallowed, then sat back in his chair, studying her with eyes that were darker than coal.
“This is very good.”
Her heart leaped. “Thanks.”
“I mean it. The saffron is delicate, not overpowering. The champagne gives it a nutty sweetness.”
“Yes,” she smiled, relief flooding her.
“I wouldn’t describe Gianfelice as dictatorial,” he said, after a moment. “He was a proud man. Proud of his family, proud of his business, and he bred that pride into us. The company is our legacy; each of us has taken our part because we want that.”
“And if you’d wanted something else?”
“Then as you say, it would have been very difficult to stop me.”
She nodded. “Why do you live here?”
The question did something to Gabe, so he looked at her with a hint of caution, a reserved cool spreading across his handsome face.
“What do you mean?”
“It’s so remote.”
His lips twisted in silent agreement. She tried some of the risotto, but barely tasted it. It was as though all of her focus was on the man opposite her, on the words he would speak, and those he wouldn’t.
“Is remote bad?”
She considered that. “Not necessarily. But it’s certainly a lifestyle choice.”
“I spend time here, but have other homes.”
She looked around the kitchen, nodding.
“That makes sense, I suppose.”
“You don’t seem convinced.”
Her eyes flared wide at his perceptive response. “Because I think this is where you choose to be more often than not,” she remarked. “I get a sense that you would resent surrounding yourself with people and noise, being in more populous areas. Why?”
“You tell me; that’s your perception.”
“Is it wrong?”
He drank his wine, his response delivered somewhat reluctantly. “Not entirely.”
“So
you like to be on your own.”
“Yes.”
“Have you always been like that?”
“What’s with the interrogation?”
She lifted her shoulder. “Do you want me to stop?”
His lips compressed and his nostrils flared as he exhaled. “You’re unusual.”
“Why?”
“Another question?”
She laughed. “You say I’m unusual, surely I get to ask why?”
“Fine. One minute you’re shaking like a leaf, as though I’m the big bad wolf about to destroy you, and then next you’re staring me down, demanding I answer whatever question you decide to pose, no matter how invasive.”
Heat flared in her veins at the very idea of him being a big, bad wolf, and of her being destroyed by him. She dropped her eyes to the risotto, focussing on the meal instead of him, trying to slow her pulse, which was not easy while he continued to study her.
“Is the question so invasive?” Damn it, she was back to shaking, her voice unsteady and breathy.
It was evident in his features that she’d caught him off-guard. “Yes.”
Warning flared in his eyes and yet she didn’t back down.
“The same could be said for your questions earlier.”
His smile flicked through her, warming her, igniting her.
“True.”
She tried not to bask in that simple concession. She sipped the wine; it was delicious. Somehow, he’d chosen the perfect accompaniment to the risotto.
“Fine,” she said softly, scooping some of the meal into her mouth. “I’ll ask you an easier question if you’re so scared of answering me.”
His eyes bore into hers, something incomprehensible in their depths. “That’s the second time you’ve called me scared.”
A shiver ran down her spine as she recollected the circumstances of the first time. “And?”
“I’m not afraid of answering you.”
“Then why hedge my question?”
“Because I’m enjoying this.”
She frowned. “That doesn’t make sense.”
“Dinner. This evening. You. I want to keep enjoying tonight. Talking about certain things will diminish my pleasure.”
“Ah,” she nodded. “You’re saying it’s too upsetting to discuss.”
Beautifully Broken (The Montebellos Book 6) Page 8
