“I make no promises the food will be edible, just warning you.”
Stefanos’ eyebrows climb. “What are you planning?”
“You’ll see. I’ll give you a hint. It’s a curry, but you need to guess what kind.”
With a glance over my shoulder to admire Stef getting out of bed, I make my way to the kitchen, and he follows moments later. He leans against the counter, bare-chested and barefoot, helping himself to a couple of cashews from the bowl beside him. When he licks his lips, it’s all I can do to make myself focus on our dinner. Distractingly hot.
After pulling out the veg I chopped earlier, I pause to give him a thorough kiss before starting the business of preparing our meal, then teasingly bite his lower lip. A real fear that I’ve actually starved him sets in, that he might be still too polite to say something. Stef has that kind of energy.
Stef watches me curiously. I set rice to cook, pull out the pureed spinach, and he smiles.
“Palak paneer?” he diagnoses as I set to making a tomato gravy.
“Yes. Well done. Your reward is pouring the wine. Glasses are over there.” I gesture.
He laughs and gets down to pouring.
Before long, we’re at the table. In some ways, sharing the meal together in my home feels more intimate than earlier. Stef nods after the first bite. “It’s very good.”
“Not regretting your choice of London restaurants tonight?”
“Not yet.” Stef grins. “I’d say it’s excellent, but I’d hate for that to go to your head or anything.”
And it’s my turn to growl.
He lifts his wineglass, his shoulders relaxed. He ducks his head and gets back to the serious business of eating, glancing up a moment later. I wink.
“This is actually really good.”
“Hey, don’t be so surprised. I have a couple of go-to recipes I’ve learned over the years. To impress my lovers.”
“Like beans on toast?” Stef asks archly. His lips twitch.
There’s nothing more I want to do in this moment than to pull him into my arms and kiss him.
“I’ll cancel you,” I threaten, gesturing at him with my fork, suppressing my smile as he grins.
“Don’t worry, people are trying to do that already,” he jokes.
But that strikes too close, bringing back recent yachting events before I can stop any of the memories from tumbling back. By the shift in expressions on his face, it hits too close for him as well, and he tries to cover by drinking his wine.
“I’m still terribly sorry,” I tell him urgently. “Please—let me know what else I can do to help. To make things better for you. I mean it. Talk to your father. Your family. Pay the insurance deductible, whatever it takes.”
Stef shakes his head firmly. “Your charity donation was very generous. And please don’t talk to my father about what happened to the yacht.”
“The donation was the least I could do, for the record.” My gaze locks on his till he wavers. “Please.”
“None of this happened on purpose…” Stefanos tries as if I need any convincing.
“Of course it didn’t. It was an accident.”
“I know…” Stef gives me a tight smile, then finishes his meal with a last bite of naan. He shakes his head. “Still. There’s no deleting the press…”
“No.” That is a familiar wish of mine. “Unfortunately not.”
Stef looks at me for a long moment, something shifting again over his features, as if he’s weighing something out. “It doesn’t get easier, dealing with what happened, seeing you.”
I shiver, watching him closely, waiting to see what else he’ll say. Does he regret coming here?
