Page 35 of BillionHeir
“Did you do this?” Chloe asks, looking at the table settings, the fresh loaf of bread and butter, and a few candles I rummaged up. It all came together nicely.
“I did,” I say proudly, walking over to one of the chairs and pulling it out for her. “Did I forget anything?”
She carefully examines the plates, cloth napkins, and silverware I set out, before noticing the fancy glasses and vintage bottle of Merlot I retrieved from the cellar.
“I think you thought of everything,” she says before lowering herself into the seat as I push it in toward the table.
“That is what I do,” I say confidently as I walk around the table to take my seat across from her. “This looks delicious.”
“And you had your doubts,” she says with a smile as she uses a spatula to carefully serve the steaming hot pasta onto each of our plates.
“I was more worried about how long it was going to take, but I now have a feeling that every minute was worth it.”
She smiles at my compliment, looking deeply into my eyes.
Time seems to slow as I stare back at her, lost for words.
“Would you like some bread?” she asks, breaking the tension that seems to be growing between us at an ever-increasing rate.
“Please,” I answer, grabbing the bottle of wine to pour us each a glass.
I am glad I had the foresight to open the bottle before she came down. I managed it, but only just. I nearly dropped thebottle several times as I was trying to work the corkscrew into it. But the pleasure of surprising her, and not having to ask her to do it for me, makes all the effort worth it.
I hate feeling like an invalid.
She places a piece of buttered bread onto my plate next to the lasagna we made together and something about the moment just feels right. Like this is exactly where I am supposed to be. With her. I lift my glass and look into her eyes, captivated by the way her green irises sparkle in the candlelight.
“To healing, growth, and new beginnings. Cheers.”
We clink our glasses together and both take a sip. She doesn’t remind me about my meds or my physical limitations like she normally would. Instead, she maintains eye contact with me as we drink, licking her lips lightly as she places the glass back down on the table. When she realizes what she did, she quickly looks away as her cheeks turn red.
After this afternoon, things feel different between us. I don’t want to do anything to shatter that. I think we are both starting to see each other in a brand-new light, which is exactly what I have been hoping for. I was starting to have my doubts, but I think there is hope for us, yet.
I set my glass down and pick up my fork with my mouth watering. The aroma coming from the food is enough to drive a man crazy. I take a tentative bite, aware that the food is still hot, and watch as she does the same.
“Damn,” I say once I swallow. I use my fork to point to my plate. “Your nan knows good lasagna.”
“She did, didn’t she?” Chloe says as she uses her napkin to dab a bit of sauce off of her lips.
“I still can’t believe you made fresh pasta. I have never seen anyone do that.”
“Really?”
“Really. I have eaten it before, but I have never seen the actual process. It is pretty cool what you can do with a little flour and eggs.”
“Isn’t it? I will admit that when my nan taught me to cook, I wasn’t as receptive as I wish I had been. I was a busy teenager who would rather hang out with my friends than in a hot kitchen with an old woman. But I never appreciated it more than when I moved to the States as a broke college student. My friends loved coming over to hang out with Jenna and me. We always had baked goods,” she says with a tinkling laugh.
“I am sure the boys and I would have found you if we had gone to college together.”
“I bet you three would have, wouldn’t you? I am sure you were a cheeky lot.”
I throw my head back and laugh. “You are still so damn British.”
Her cheeks turn red again, and it suddenly feels like all the air has been sucked out of the room. We both sit frozen as thetension between us grows. I want her so damn much, and I think she wants me, too.
Chloe breaks first, clearing her throat and looking down at her food to take another bite. When she closes her eyes and lets out a soft moan, I feel myself get rock hard. I pick up my wine glass and take a drink, trying not to think about all the ways that I could make her moan underneath me. Either she doesn’t know what she is doing to me, or she is a very wicked woman.
“So,” I say once I have got myself under control again. I search for a subject that won’t leave me wanting to slather her in this delicious pasta sauce and lick it from her body inch by delectable inch. “Tell me about your mom.”
