I feed him carefully, watching his face for every reaction. The risotto is creamy and rich, exactly how he likes it, and I can see his expression soften despite himself as the familiar flavors hit his palate. There’s something almost vulnerable about the way he accepts each bite, like he’s slowly letting his guard down.
“This is really good,” he admits reluctantly after the third forkful. “Actually, it’s incredible. Where did you learn to cook like this?”
“My nonna,” I reply, glowing with pride. “She taught me that food is love made visible. Every dish should tell a story, should show the person you’re feeding exactly how much they mean to you.”
We settle into a comfortable rhythm that feels as natural as breathing. I feed him, bring the wine glass to his lips when he needs a drink, dab his mouth gently with the expensive linen napkin. It’s intimate and domestic and absolutely perfect, exactly how I always dreamed our first real date would be.
“So,” I chatter happily as we work through the meal, “what do you think of the ambiance? It took a long time to find the right place.”
Carlo gives me a look that’s part concern, part fascination, like he’s studying some exotic creature he’s never encountered before. “Ginni, you do realize this isn’t actually a restaurant, right?”
“Of course I know that,” I laugh, delighted by his confusion. “But atmosphere is everything when it comes to romance. Just because we’re dining at home doesn’t mean we can’t have a proper date experience. In fact, this is better than any restaurant because it’s completely private. Just the two of us, no interruptions, no prying eyes.”
I continue my cheerful narration as we work through the meal, discussing all manner of topics, from sport to politics. But never his work, I was raised in Carlo’s world, I know better than that. I know when a man comes home, he leaves work at the door.
Carlo participates in the conversation despite himself, occasionally offering opinions about the food or asking questions about my cooking techniques. He keeps shooting me those worried looks, like he’s not sure if I’ve completely lost touch with reality, but he’s also clearly enjoying the meal and the attention.
The risotto disappears slowly, savored rather than simply consumed. Each bite is an experience, a moment of connection between us. When I offer him wine, our eyes meet over the crystal rim, and I can see something shifting in hisexpression. Not quite acceptance, but perhaps the beginning of understanding.
“You know,” he says quietly during a lull in the conversation, “this really is exceptional. The risotto, the wine, all of it. You’ve gone to incredible trouble.”
“It’s not trouble when it’s for someone you love,” I reply softly, meaning every word. “I want you to be happy, Carlo. I want you to feel cherished and cared for. You work so hard, carry so much responsibility. You deserve to be spoiled sometimes.”
Something flickers in his eyes at my words, something that might be gratitude or might be something deeper. He doesn’t respond verbally, but he accepts the next bite I offer with less resistance than before.
When we finish the last of the risotto, I carefully gather the dishes and silverware back onto the tray, already planning what I’ll prepare for tomorrow’s meals. Perhaps something French next time, or maybe those lamb chops he always talks about.
“Thank you for a lovely date,” I say softly, leaning over to press a gentle kiss to his cheek. His skin is warm and slightly rough with stubble, and he smells like expensive wine and my soap and something that’s purely him. The combination is intoxicating.
I pull back and give him my most charming smile.
“Do you want to come in for coffee?”
Carlo coughs and splutters, nearly choking on air. “Ginni! You do know we’re in your basement and this isn’t actually a date?”
I stare at him for a moment, blinking as if his words are slowly penetrating my consciousness. The romantic haze begins to clear, reality creeping back in around the edges.
“You’re right,” I sigh dramatically, my shoulders sagging with sudden disappointment. “What was I thinking?”
Relief floods across his features like sunrise, and he relaxes visibly against the padded headboard.
“I’m a good boy,” I continue seriously, straightening up as the full implications hit me. “We can’t have sex before marriage. I can’t invite you in for coffee.”
The relief transforms instantly into alarm, his eyes growing enormous as he processes what I’ve just said.
“What?” he whispers, his voice barely audible. Then he coughs. “Oh, that’s such a shame,” he says weakly, looking like he might be having some kind of breakdown.
But then the solution becomes perfectly clear, so obvious I can’t believe I didn’t think of it before. I brighten immediately, clapping my hands together with renewed excitement.
“We’ll just have to get married tomorrow! I’ll book a celebrant for an online wedding!”
Carlo’s mouth opens and closes soundlessly, like a fish gasping for air.
“This is so exciting!” I squeal, jumping up from the bed with the energy of someone who’s just solved the world’s most complex puzzle. “I have to plan everything! The flowers, the music, the outfits! Oh, there’s so much to do!”
I rush to my wardrobe, my mind already racing through all the possibilities. This is going to be the most beautiful wedding in history.
Chapter nine
