He pauses, holding a pan aloft above the sink. ‘Why would I want to eat a horse?’
‘Erm, well, I don’t know. That’s a good point. I would also rather eat a cow than a horse.’
‘So I’m right then?’
‘Well, no. The saying ishorse.’
He shrugs and proceeds to strain penne pasta.
‘What’re we having?’
He pours the drained pasta into another larger pan which is already bubbling on the induction hob, then stirs the contents of both pans together and finishes by spooning the pasta onto two plates and tops each with parmesan.
‘I like to call it Al Italiano Meato Pasto by Gregory.’ He plants the plate in front of me and drops a kiss on my temple.
‘Just rolls off the tongue,’ I say.
He reaches for a slice of the garlic baguette and gives me a lopsided smirk that nearly knocks me from my stool. Laid-back and damn sexy. I could get used to this Gregory. I feel black thoughts creeping up on me and I have to fight them back down, focusing on my forkful of pasta, blowing on it then putting the whole thing greedily into my mouth. I’m hit by tomato, garlic, herbs and the intense flavours of cured meats. ‘Mm, super good. I didn’t realise you could cook.’
He finishes chewing his mouthful of food. ‘I can’t. Al Italiano Meato Pasto by Gregory is the only dish I know.’
I laugh again at his elaborate Italian accent with a hint of South African twang. ‘Who taught you?’
‘No one really. It just sort of happened. Would you like wine?’ He reaches for an open bottle of Malbec and two wine glasses.
‘Yes, please.’
He pours, then sits back on his stool. ‘I spent some time in Italy. In the early days, when I was trying to get GJR off the ground in Europe. I kept ordering dishes similar to this.’ He looks down at his plate. ‘Kind of. They were better presented in Italy.’
‘You lived in Italy?’
‘Of a sorts. I was in Italy for three months but I moved around the big cities. I spent most of my time in Milan.’
‘I’d love to go to Italy. Wander the cobbled streets in a white, cotton dress. Sip espresso with the locals. Ride a scooter.’
‘Let’s take tomorrow off.’ His face is absolutely serious.
Swallowing, I ponder the idea. ‘I can’t just take the day off.’
‘Yes, you can. Let’s spend the day together, just us.’
‘But… well, I… I have work to do. I can’t just leave my clients in the lurch and… you could be, we might be, you could be charged any time.’
He pulls my stool towards him so my knees are pressed between his. ‘I want us to have a normal day. No shit. Just you and me.’
‘Okay.’
‘Okay?’
‘Okay. I’ll email Neil after dinner.’
Neil. Mr Ghurair. Dubai. I smile at my astounding CEO. There’s no way in hell I’ll leave this man by choice. For the first time, I’m hopeful. Hopeful that he’s falling as hard for me as I have for him. Hopeful that no news of the case by day eight means we might escape charge. Maybe, just maybe, this could work.
‘You need to eat some of that,’ he says, inclining his head towards the plate of garlic bread.
Giddy with the light feeling in my chest I ask, ‘You think you have garlic breath, don’t you?’
‘I don’t think. I know. Eat.’ He picks up a slice of baguette. ‘Open.’
