Shrugging, he turned back to the stove. "Maybe I did, maybe I didn't. I'll never tell."
"Bastard."
"You like it."
I couldn't deny that, so I just sipped my wine and watched him work. There was something hypnotic about the way he moved—confident, purposeful, each action deliberate and precise. Just like when he touched me.
When the timer dinged, he plated the food with the same meticulous attention he seemed to apply to everything. The rich aroma of tomatoes, herbs, and slow-cooked chicken made my stomach growl embarrassingly loudly.
Instead of setting the plate in front of me, Rafe picked up a fork and speared a piece of chicken bathed in the savory red sauce. He blew on it gently, then held it out to me.
"Open," he commanded softly.
My lips parted automatically. Something about his tone bypassed my brain entirely and spoke directly to my body. He guided the fork into my mouth, his eyes never leaving mine as the flavors exploded on my tongue—tangy tomato, sweet basil, and a complex medley of spices I couldn't begin to name.
I moaned involuntarily, eyes fluttering closed as I savored the bite.
"Good?" he asked in a low gravelly voice.
"Incredible," I admitted. Opening my eyes, I found him staring at me with an intensity that turned my insides to mush. "Your Nonna taught you well."
"She did." He finally set the plate in front of me, then took his own seat beside me rather than across the island. "My bisnonno was a chef in Naples. She learned everything from him, then passed it down."
We ate in companionable silence for a few minutes, the quiet punctuated only by the clink of forks against plates and the occasional appreciative sound from me. The food was genuinely excellent—rich and complex, the kind of dish that spoke of generations of perfecting.
"How did your parents take it when you told them you wanted to dance?" Rafe asked, finally breaking the silence.
I paused with my fork halfway to my mouth. "Not well," I admitted after a moment. "My mother especially. She's practical. Raised in a world where careers are things like accounting or nursing or teaching. Safe, stable jobs with benefits and retirement plans."
"Not dancing."
"Definitely not dancing." I set down my fork as memories washed over me. "She thought it was just a phase. Something I'd grow out of when I realized how hard it would be to make a living. But I never did grow out of it. It's like breathing for me."
Rafe studied me, his dark eyes intent. "I've never seen you dance properly.”
"I'd like to show you sometime,” I said. “Real dancing. Not the watered-down stuff I teach to preschoolers."
"I'd like that." The simple sincerity in his voice made my heart twist.
We finished our meal in that easy quiet that had settled between us. When we'd cleared our plates, Rafe refilled our wine glasses and we moved to the stools on the other side of the island, facing each other.
"So," I said, taking a fortifying sip of my wine, "my mother."
"Your mother," he echoed, waiting for me to continue.
"She's... traditional. And while she's making progress with accepting Evie's situation—thank heaven for Liam sending them on that tropical vacation—I'm honestly relieved they're away right now." I traced the rim of my glass with my fingertip. "I'm not sure I'm ready to face her judgment about me following in Evie's footsteps by marrying for money."
The words hung in the air between us, and I immediately regretted the phrasing. Rafe's expression darkened, something shuttering behind his eyes as he set down his glass with a thunk.
"Is that still what this is to you?" he asked, voice carefully controlled. "A marriage of convenience? A business transaction?"
Was that still how I saw our arrangement? A week ago, I might have said yes without hesitation. But now?
Now, after he'd shown me his hidden sanctuary, after he'd played for me, after he'd held me while I slept and cooked for me and looked at me like I was something precious? After I'd startedto see the man beneath the polished exterior, the wounded heart he kept so carefully guarded?
I studied him for a long moment, taking in the vulnerability beneath his carefully controlled expression. His jaw was tight, that muscle jumping beneath his skin as he waited for my answer.
"No," I admitted softly. "That's not what this is anymore. Not to me."
