“Of course, of course.” Lucia's face broke into a warm smile as she approached me and took my hands in hers. “Welcome, bella. I bring extra plate right away.”
Before I could respond, she was rushing back to what I assumed was the kitchen, muttering in rapid Italian.
“You have a personal chef,” I said flatly.
“Lucia's been with me for years,” Rafe replied, placing his hand on my lower back again to guide me toward the dining room. “She worries I don't eat enough.”
The dining room was as impressive as the rest of the penthouse—a long glass table surrounded by sleek chairs, more floor-to-ceiling windows, and a view that probably sold the place all on its own. One place setting had been arranged at one end of the table, complete with more forks and knives than seemed necessary for any meal.
I stood awkwardly beside one of the chairs, unsure of the protocol. Did people like Rafe wait to be seated in their own homes? Did they have specific chairs they always sat in?
“Sit,” Rafe said, pulling out a chair for me.
I sank into it, hyperaware of how close he stood behind me as he pushed it in. His hands lingered on the back for a moment before he moved to take his seat at the head of the table.
Lucia bustled in with another place setting, arranging it with practiced efficiency while chattering in a mix of English and Italian. I caught words like “surprise” and “beautiful” and felt my cheeks heat.
“First course is almost ready,” she announced before disappearing again.
I fidgeted with my napkin, feeling like an impostor in a play where everyone knew the script except me. “I'm not dressed for a formal dinner.”
“You're fine,” Rafe said, watching me with those penetrating eyes. “Relax, Cecelia.”
“Easy for you to say.” I took a sip of water, wishing it were something stronger. “This is all perfectly normal for you.”
“None of this is normal.” His voice was quieter now. “Even for me.”
I couldn’t ask what he meant because Lucia returned carrying two plates. She set one before each of us with a flourish. “Scallops with truffle risotto, Mr. Rafe's favorite starter.”
The dish looked and smelled incredible—perfectly seared scallops nestled atop creamy risotto, garnished with fresh herbs. Under different circumstances, I might have been excited to taste it. Now, it just made my stomach clench with anxiety.
“Thank you, Lucia,” Rafe said, his tone genuinely warm. “It looks wonderful as always.”
She beamed at him before turning to me. “You eat, bella. Too skinny.”
After she left, I stared at my plate, trying to remember which fork to use.
“Smallest fork first,” Rafe said without looking up from his food. “Work your way outward with each course.”
With a flush to my cheeks, I picked up the correct fork and took a small bite. The flavors exploded on my tongue—rich, buttery, and so freaking perfect—but I could barely appreciate them through the knot of tension inside my chest.
We ate in silence for a few minutes before Rafe spoke again. “We'll fly to Vegas tomorrow to get married.”
I choked on my water, coughing violently as it went down the wrong pipe. Rafe continued eating as if he'd merely commented on the weather.
“Vegas?” I finally managed when I could speak. “Are you serious?”
“Completely.” He cut a scallop with surgical precision. “Did you think I'd wait?”
“I thought we might, I don't know, discuss it?” I set my fork down with a loud clank. “Like rational adults?”
“We already discussed it. You agreed to marry me. Vegas is the most efficient way to make it legal quickly.” He took a sip of wine. “The sooner we're legally bound, the better.”
“For you, maybe.” Appetite gone, I pushed my plate away. “What about my life? My job? I can't just disappear to Vegas without notice.”
“Yourjobwas dancing for Santiago,” Rafe said coolly. “That's no longer a concern.”
“I teach dance classes three times a week,” I snapped. “To actual children who expect me to show up.”
