I clink my glass against his. “Surviving them, sure.”
The wine is good. It hits my tongue with dark fruit and a hint of leather, and I feel the warmth of it slide down my throat and settle in my chest. The edges of the day begin to soften.
I dig into the pasta, and it’s perfect. Al dente, the sauce rich with tomato, garlic, and Parmesan cheese. I make a noise that’s embarrassingly close to a moan.
Gabriel smirks. “Good?”
“It’s fucking incredible.”
“I’m glad you like it.”
We eat in silence for a few minutes, and it’s not as uncomfortable as I expected. The wine helps. I take another sip and set the glass down, watching him twirl pasta on his fork the way he does everything, like it deserves his full attention.
“So, why’d you leave the States?” I know I wasn’t going to pry. I told myself I’d let him keep his secrets, but the wine is making me loose, and I’m doing it anyway. “You said you’ve been here for a few weeks. That’s a long time to be alone.”
Gabriel’s fork pauses halfway to his mouth. He sets it down and reaches for his wine instead, taking a slow sip before answering. “I wanted to take a break from work. Spend some time somewhere peaceful.”
I know a deflection when I hear one, but I let it slide for now. “And how’s your interior design gig going?”
“It’s fine. Busy. I felt like I needed some inspiration.” He swirls the wine in his glass, watching the liquid catch the light. “Sometimes you have to step away to remember why you started.”
I nod as if that makes sense. Maybe it does, but I wouldn’t know. I’ve spent the last five years building a business and a marriage, and both of them collapsed in the span of six months. Stepping away wasn’t a choice. It was survival.
“Mom and Philip are coming in a few weeks,” I say, steering us toward safer ground. “With Audrey.”
Gabriel’s smirk returns. “Yeah, Claire told me. She isn’t subtle about wanting to keep an eye on us both, is she?”
I laugh, and it’s the first real laugh I’ve had in weeks. “No. She really isn’t.”
“Are you looking forward to it?”
“The family time, or the hovering?”
“Both.”
I consider the question. “I’m looking forward to working on the garden. Bringing it back to life. That part feels good. The rest…” I shrug. “I’ll manage.”
Gabriel watches me for a beat longer than necessary, as if he’s trying to see past the words. Then he nods and goes back to his pasta.
We finish dinner and he brings out tiramisu. I stare at it.
“You made this?”
“I did.”
“Where the hell did you learn to make tiramisu?”
He shrugs. “YouTube, mostly. It’s not difficult.”
It’s the best tiramisu I’ve ever had. The mascarpone is light and sweet, the espresso soaked into the ladyfingers just enough that they’re soft but not soggy. I’m halfway through my second bite when I realize I forgot what a good cook Gabriel was. And he’s gotten better. A lot better.
“You’re going to ruin me for restaurant desserts,” I say.
“Good. Restaurant desserts are overrated.”
I help him clear the plates after we finish. He washes, I dry, and it’s easy and weirdly domestic.
When we take the wine bottle and our glasses out to the veranda, the sun is beginning its descent, the sky shifting from blue to gold. The air is cooler now, almost pleasant. We sit in the chairs facing the garden, and Gabriel stretches his legs out in front of him, crossing them at the ankles.
