“You’re the first woman I’ve taken to dinner in five years.”
She blinks. “I’m sorry, what?”
“You heard me.”
“But you’re... you.” She gestures at me like I’m a puzzle she can’t figure out. “You’re gorgeous and wealthy and mysterious. Women must throw themselves at you constantly.”
“That’s different.”
“How?”
“Because those women don’t matter.” The words come out harsher than I intended. “They’re not... this isn’t...”
“Alessandro.” Her hand reaches across the table, finding mine. Her touch is warm, soft. “Breathe. You’re doing fine.”
But I’m not. Because sitting here with her, in this beautiful restaurant with the city lights sparkling below us, I’m acutely aware of how much I want this. How much I want her. And how impossible it all is.
The waiter arrives with our wine, going through the tasting ritual. I barely pay attention, too focused on the way Elena’s thumb is tracing patterns on the back of my hand.
We order, she gets the halibut, I get the steak, and fall into easier conversation. Elena tells me about her friend Mira, who runs a bakery two streets over. I tell her about Marco, my second-in-command, though I frame him as my business partner.
“He sounds protective,” she observes.
“He’s known me for a long time.”
“And he doesn’t approve of me?”
I hesitate. “He doesn’t think I should be dating anyone right now. Business is... complicated.”
“There’s that word again.”
“I’ll explain. Soon. I promise.”
Our food arrives, it’s perfectly cooked and plated beautifully. Elena takes a bite of her halibut and actually moans, and the sound goes straight through me.
“Oh my God,” she says. “This is amazing. Try it.”
She holds out her fork, offering me a bite. It’s intimate in a way that makes my heart race, sharing food, being close, this small domestic gesture.
I lean forward and take the bite, and she’s right. It’s incredible.
“Good?” she asks, her eyes sparkling.
“Very.”
“Your turn.” She nods at my steak. “Share.”
I cut a piece and hold it out. She leans forward, her lips closing around the fork, and Jesus Christ, I need to think about something else before I do something inappropriate in the middle of Canlis.
“That’s perfect,” she breathes. “Why doesn’t food taste like this when I cook?”
“Maybe you’re cooking the wrong things.”
“Or maybe I’m just a terrible cook. Nonna tried to teach me, but I was always more interested in the garden than the kitchen.” She takes a sip of wine. “What about you? Do you cook?”
“Sometimes. Basic things.”
“Let me guess—pasta? Very traditional Italian dishes?”
