Because in every way that mattered, it was.
In the few hours left of the night after she’d run upstairs, the coldest and most lonely castle in Italy had become…cozy.
There were rugs everywhere, tapestries on the walls, and evergreen trees festooned with lights. The rooms they passed were no longer empty. Instead, they were brimming with comfortable-looking furniture, fires in every fireplace, music playing—Christmas carols, no less—and all of the photographs that had been in her cottage, the photographs that hadn’t made it to the castle when Antonluca had moved her the night of their wedding, were displayed.
They were everywhere. Like this was their home.
Like all of this wastheirs,too.
Not just a cell to occupy while they all did time together.
She found her way into Antonluca’s only previously furnished room and found that even it had suffered a makeover. Now it sported a big Christmas tree in one corner, lavishly decorated, with piles of perfectly wrapped presents laid beneath it.
Once again, Hannah felt her eyes get heavy with emotion because this looked more like the Christmas of her dreams than any she’d ever had. Back home in Nebraska, even though everyone had always been on their best behavior on a day like this, there would always beundercurrents. Muttering about agendas andhigh-falutin’ airsand dire warnings not to touch the cookies lest the cookie exchange beruined.
Things she’d ignored because she’d wanted to enjoy Christmas.
Yet somehow Antonluca had dug into her finest, most dearly held daydreams, and had provided her with every single one of them come true.
And still, there was that marvelous smell of dough and sugar and cinnamon, making her stomach grumble.
She left Dominic to leap around in glee at all of the Christmas splendor and followed her nose back into the kitchen.
Where she stopped dead once again.
Because Antonluca was there.
But more amazing, he was cooking.
The counter was filled with platters of food, and even at a quick glance she could see that he had covered what looked like every possible Christmas tradition around. There were piles of fragrant cinnamon rolls, there were bacon dishes and eggs, hot chocolate, sweets, panettone andpandoro, and many dishes she couldn’t identify at a glance.
She could hardly believe her eyes.
And when he turned around from the cooking range to face her, she caught her breath.
Because this was an Antonluca she recognized, but not usually outside of their bed. This was a man made of passion, and a wild, beautiful heart. She could see it in him. She could certainly see it in the food he’d prepared.
As if he’d found that magic in him again.
And she understood, as if he’d reached in and touched her heart with his, that he was showing her his love in the only way he could.
She understood other things then. Like why he had stepped back from cooking. Because it must have felt unrequited to him, all this intense and gloriouslovehe had in him, especially after it had performed the task he’d claimed he’d learned it for.
Because he had never allowed himself space to do anything simply because helovedit.
That wasn’t in his vocabulary. That was anathema to the street kid who had simply needed to survive. She understood that now.
But here he was, cooking for her. And their son. On Christmas morning in that cold prison he had turned into a home overnight.
He stared at her from across the room, and Hannah had never seen this man look so…out of his depth.
He stood tall, his gray eyes a kind of storm she’d never seen before. For a long moment, he only stared at her and then he looked, almost helplessly, at the counter piled high with food.
With his art. His joy.His love.
“I didn’t know what you would like,” he said, his voice gruff and stiff and not like his at all. “So I made everything.”
“Antonluca,” Hannah managed to get out, though her throat was tight, holding his gaze the way she wished she really could reach over and hold him, too, “I love you, too.”
