“You’ll see,” he murmurs, lifting my hand to his lips once more.
If it was anyone else, his answer (or lack thereof) would unnerve me. But already, I trust him implicitly. I’m confident Alaric will have thought of everything. I don’t have to hold on to my worries like they’re essential to my survival. My needs will be met—and if they aren’t, I’ll have no trouble talking to him.
Twisting in my seat, I take the opportunity to really drink him in.
He looks so good behind the wheel. Beaming in a way that’s eager and confident despite rarely coming off as cocky and never condescending. He’s handsome, polished, and so damn competent. He’s kind to everyone. He’s especially kind to me.
While his self-confidence is a turn-on, the way he makes me feel seen and settled at the same time is far more impressive.
In any other scenario, with any other person, I would be wound tight and stressed to the max right now. Our whole day has gone off the rails. Nothing has gone according to plan. And while I’ve experienced a few moments of apprehension, I haven’t been truly anxious.
“We have arrived.” He pulls off the road into a portico and greets the valet who hustles out to meet us.
“Come on, angel. Welcome to my home.”
CHAPTER 38
EVANGELINE
“I’ve got her.” Alaric dismisses the sommelier with a wave and reaches across the table to refill my wine, keeping his eyes on me the entire time.
“You are so beautiful.”
Cheeks heating, I try to hold back a smile. I’ve been grinning like a fool all night—laughing, too, completely and utterly charmed by this man.
Alaric arranged an alfresco dinner for the two of us in a quiet corner of the Princess Grace Rose Garden. We’re tucked behind a little fountain and surrounded by trees covered in twinkle lights, with electric candles in glass votives adorning the lower branches.
Although this is a public park, we haven’t encountered another soul besides the chef who greeted us, our sommelier, and the server.
Candlelight casts long shadows across the table, lending to the moody ambiance as we sip our wine. All I can think about is how lucky I am to be here, with him, experiencing this moment.
“Did you get enough to eat?” he asks.
I stifle a groan. “I’m stuffed.” Sitting back, I scan the table. “And already dreaming about eating soccas again.”
“I’ll find more tomorrow,” he promises. “Or I’ll learn how to make them myself.”
My heart floats in my chest. This man.
Our meal started with a variety of spiced socca, a Monégasque specialty the chef described as a chickpea crepe. I was wary, like I tendto be with new-to-me food. On principle, I hate crepes. Either be an omelet or be a pancake—don’t try to be both.
Alaric encouraged me to try the tiniest of bites and promised he wouldn’t be offended if I had to spit the food into my napkin. While I wasn’t concerned about the taste—which turned out to be exceptional—I discovered that the texture didn’t bother me at all. Socca is crispy on the outside, yet soft and pillowy in the center. I preferred the plain version that was simply salted and seasoned with rosemary but enjoyed sampling the other flavors as well.
The chef served pasta with garlic and olive oil for me—along with parmesan fresh-grated tableside so I could add it myself—while Alaric’s was served with a Romanesco sauce along with sautéed shrimp and scallops.
I devoured most of a baguette as well. Fresh bread is my weakness. Plus the butter was so sweet and creamy. It tasted nothing like the little foiled packets they give out at the bodega back home.
We ended the meal with flights of fresh gelato. Alaric traded his mocha cream for my pistachio. The man doesn’t like chocolate, nor does he consume caffeine on any day except race day. He swears it makes him sharper. A morning without coffee or espresso sounds like torture to me, but to each their own.
“How long have you had your place here?” I ask, extending one leg under the table and brushing his calf.
His responding arch of a brow only spurs me on. Heat gathering inside me, I let my bare foot trail up toward his knee. That’s as far as I get before he grasps my ankle and runs a thumb over my arch.
“Ticklish?”
I grin. “Not in the slightest.”
Expression hardening, he uses more pressure, testing me.
