“Then we move to Vegas.”
“You live in Mexico.”
“We live wherever the fuck we want to live, Evie. That’s the benefit of being the boss.” Emmanuel winks at me. “Speaking of Mexico, we need to make a quick detour before Milan.”
“Okay, I’ve never been. What do I need to pack? What do I need to wear?” I ask as the options fire through my head.
“Whatever you want towear.”
“Helpful,” I groan.
“Here. Sign these.” Emmanuel shoves another stack of paperwork in front of me. “It’s for the joining of our assets.”
“Okay. But you do know I’m not in this for the money, right?” I look over my shoulder at him.
Emmanuel leans down and presses his lips to mine. “I’m well aware.”
There’re ten different spots that need my signature. I sign them all, without reading them. I trust Emmanuel. The notion is ridiculous. I’m fully aware of that, and the very real chance that this decision may just come back and bite me in the ass. But I’m deciding to take a leap of faith.
Emmanuel picks up the folders and puts them on the other side of the desk. “Now, let’s go eat. You haven’t eaten in days.”
“I was asleep.”
“I know. But now you’re not. What do you feel like having?” he asks.
“I can cook for us,” I offer.
“Maria will cook whatever you want, Evie.”
I frown. “You don’t trust me to cook for you?”
“I don’t want you to have to cook for me. There’s a difference,” he says.
“But what if I want to?” I counter.
“Then the kitchenis all yours.”
“Good. Because I actually don’t hate cooking.” I smile. I don’t do it often, but I do like it.
“Can you cook Mexican food?”
“Ah…”Shit, I can’t.
“I’m kidding. Relax.” Emmanuel taps the tip of my nose with his finger. “Make whatever you want.”
“I can learn how to cook Mexican food. I’ll take lessons,” I tell him.
“You don’t need to do that.”
“I want to,” I insist.
Emmanuel stands in the kitchen watching me make pasta. It’s simple, but it is delicious. Well, at least, I hope he thinks it is.
“I know it’s not fancy like you’re used to,” I say, handing him a bowl full of Carbonaro. “But I figured you must like Italian food too if you want to get married in Milan so bad.”
“It smells fucking great,” he says as we settle into the small dining table. “I’ve never had anyone cook for me before.”
“You have Maria cook for you all the time,” I remind him.
