The corner of his mouth twitched. “I'm trying to apologize, Cecelia.”
“I know. That's what's scaring me.” I wrapped my hands around the warm coffee cup in a poor attempt to anchor myself. “What's gotten into you?”
His expression grew more serious. “We're going to be spending a significant time together. I thought perhaps we could try to make it less... combative.”
Before I could respond, Lucia bustled into the dining room, carrying a tray laden with enough food to feed half of Manhattan. Steam rose from a basket of pastries—croissantsand something that looked like cinnamon rolls—alongside plates of eggs, bacon, fresh fruit, and what appeared to be homemade jam.
“Good morning, bella.” Lucia beamed at me, setting the feast before us with theatrical flair. “You eat, yes? Too skinny.” She shot Rafe a look I couldn't quite interpret. “Both of you, too skinny. Need food for... energy.”
The way she emphasized “energy” made my cheeks heat.
“Thank you, Lucia,” Rafe said smoothly. “It looks wonderful.”
She patted his shoulder with motherly affection, then disappeared back toward the kitchen, humming something that suspiciously sounded like a love song.
I reached for a croissant, tearing off a piece and watching the buttery layers separate. “So this is what, a peace offering?” I popped the pastry into my mouth, nearly moaning at how perfectly it melted on my tongue.
“If you like.” Rafe filled his own plate. “I prefer to think of it as a reset.”
“A reset,” I repeated, reaching for the jam. “Like we just delete everything that's happened since you carried me out of that club?”
“Not delete. Learn from.” He took a sip of his coffee, watching me over the rim of the cup. “I'm not suggesting we pretend the past few days didn't happen. I'm suggesting we try a different approach moving forward.”
Considering his words, I spread jam on another piece of croissant. Part of me—the part still stinging from his accusations and high-handedness—wanted to tell him exactly where he could shove hisdifferent approach. But another part, the part that had stood in a doorway last night and witnessed something raw and genuine, hesitated.
“What did you have in mind?” I finally asked.
“For starters, I'd like to know what your plans are for the day.” He speared a piece of fruit with his fork. His tone casual but his eyes focused intently on my face.
Chewing slowly, I bought myself time to think. “I arranged for my dance classes to be covered this week, but I'd like to teach them myself. The studio's only a few blocks from here.”
“You mentioned teaching before.” Interest flickered in his expression—genuine interest, not the polite facsimile he usually offered in social settings. “What kind?”
“Ballet, mostly. To children.” I shrugged, trying to downplay it. “It doesn't pay much, but I enjoy it.”
“How old are your students?”
“The youngest class is four to six year olds. Complete chaos, but adorable. The oldest are teenagers, pre-professional track.” I warmed to the subject despite my best intentions. “They work hard. Remind me of myself at that age.”
Rafe nodded, something almost wistful crossing his features. “I'd like to see you teach sometime.”
The comment caught me off guard. I pictured Rafe in his immaculate suit, perched on one of the tiny chairs in the studio while a horde of tutu-clad five-year-olds twirled around him. The image was so absurd I almost laughed.
“I'm serious,” he said, reading my expression with uncomfortable accuracy. “I'm curious about what you love.”
There was something in the way he said it—what you love, not what you do—that made my throat tighten unexpectedly.
“Maybe,” I managed finally. “If you're really interested.”
“I am.” He checked his watch, then folded his napkin beside his plate. “I should get to the office. There's a car waiting to take you wherever you need to go today.”
“You don't need to—”
“I know.” He stood, adjusting his cuffs in that particular way he had. “But the offer is there if you want it.”
I nodded, unsure how to respond to this new, accommodating version of Rafe. He moved toward the door, then paused and turned back to me.
“Would you join me for dinner tonight? There's someone I'd like you to meet.”
