Page 28 of Afraid to Hope

“In this application, sleep with me.”

Her body grew still as stone.

“Look at me, Nat.”

She shifted to face him.

“I can’t see those incredible eyes of yours.”

She took her sunglasses off and pressed her fingers to her forehead, her eyes closed. Molten pewter stared at him when she opened them. Her chin trembled.

“Sweetheart…,” he murmured, squatting on his haunches. “Damn, you’re scared.” He slid his broad fingers through his hair. “Nat. I’m sorry.” He covered her hand. “Do I scare you? Is that it? I never meant to scare you.”

She shivered as she took a long, deep breath. Her words were calm, careful. “You don’t scare me. You drive me crazy sometimes. But”—she stopped him with her hand as he leaned forward into her space—“not here. I have thought a lot about what you said earlier. We need to talk. Privately, without the director, or Simon, or in this restaurant. After lunch. After we go to thesouk.I have a lot going through my head. It’s all piling up.”

He reached out and stroked her chin. “I can help, Nat.”

“We’ll talk about it later, at home.”

Bane nodded and rose, leaning over to plant a kiss on her lips. “I know. No PDA. But you’re a damsel in distress. I just want to make it better,” he insisted, stepping back.

Natasha grabbed his wrist and jerked him toward her. “You almost upended our lunch. It’s right behind you.”

“Quick reflexes. Impressive.” He sat as their food was placed in front of them and tore hiskhobzin half. Before scooping up some of the mouthwateringrfissawith the bread, he asked, “What else do you have?”

She dished out half the salad, olives, and kababs to him, smiling, clearly at peace with using her left hand, her eyes full of humor. “You will just have to wait and see.”

After a pleasurable lunch and spiced Moroccan coffee, Natasha was prepared to haggle the prices individually, knowing the more she purchased the better her bargaining position was. Her first selection was a rugged rucksack she bought in a curated shop off the alley. It was more costly, but it was what she needed.

Natasha and Bane wandered into a shop full of higher-end goods, seeking authentic Dogon figurines, but came up empty.

“I’m in Morocco for a while. Here’s my business card in case you come across something. My clients are particular and not price sensitive.” She gave the shop owner her ART card.

They ventured back to the center of the souk where Natasha pulled a canvas bag from her tote and bargained with vendors over spices, couscous, dates, olives, and other vegetables and fruit she would need for dinner and for breakfast. She purchased bread and had a chicken prepared and wrapped for dinner.

Bane captured it all in photos, clearly enjoying watching Natasha in her element.

“We can get pastries in the morning,” she said, turning to Bane. “I’m done. Ready?”

He capped his lens and reached for her tote and the other bags. “Ready. I let Simon know. He’ll pick us up where he dropped us off.”

“Thanks. Did you get some good pictures?”

“I did. It was fun watching you shop.”

They loaded their purchases into the trunk for the short drive to pick up their car. The agency had taken care of all the paperwork, so they transferred their purchases and parted ways with Simon, parking the car—a Jeep—in the garage and entering theriadthrough the gate of the private backyard. Bane helped Natasha unpack in the kitchen and then grabbed one of the large canvas bags to use for a beer and wine run, promising to help her after he returned.

“Wanna kiss me goodbye?”

Her answer was to lift her eyebrows and stare down those twinkling bedroom eyes. “Here’s the key. Let yourself in.”

He winked at her, humming in his deep baritone on the way out.

Natasha opened the spices and poured them into glass jars and pulled out a colander and began sorting the vegetables. Next she flipped through her grandmother’s recipe book, taking her time to read Mémé’s notes in the margins. A few of hers were in there as well. Mémé had encouraged Natasha to write when she was absorbed in a creation. That thought made Natasha wistful, and cooking in the kitchen filled her with joy.

She preheated the oven and began preparing the chickenbastilla,a delicious chicken pie, first because it took longer to assemble. Natasha shook her head and chuckled; Bane was one determined man. She had not missed how he had all but inhaled his food during lunch. What she was making should fill him up. If there were leftovers, they could take them tomorrow and eat them during the drive.

She placed thebastillain the oven and put atagineand its diffuser and a pot on the stovetop, adding vegetable broth to the pot and oil to thetagine.After rinsing and chopping the vegetables, she added onions and garlic to the simmeringliquid. As soon as those were translucent, she began stacking the vegetables—placing the ones that would take the longest to cook on the bottom—then whisked theras el hanoutblend she’d created into a hot vegetable broth. The spices thickened the broth quickly, and she poured it over the vegetables, placed thetaginelid on, and set the heat to low.

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