“What is it?” he asked, noticing my silence.
“I wanted dinner to be a gift to you,” I confessed to him. “I wanted to impress you. And now you’re takingmeout.”
Stefan’s glass of champagne stilled just before it reached his mouth. He paused, took a sip and then lowered it.
“You do impress me,” he said. “And you don’t have to be the perfect housewife to do it. My mother couldn’t cook either. She loved food, she appreciated food—but there were other things that mattered more to her than spending hours in the kitchen each day. Sounds like someone else I know.” He grinned. “Don’t knock yourself if your talents lie elsewhere. And I’m not just talking about your schoolwork.”
I felt my cheeks heat, my heart leaping in my chest. When I looked back up at him, his gaze was intense, as always, but there was something else there too. Something softer.
He had just finished telling me a story about the time his mother set their kitchen on fire with a pan of frying bacon when the waiter brought out our first course. We were still laughing together as the plates were set before us.
I couldn’t believe this was my life. That I was married to this man.
Stefan raised his glass in my direction.
“Enjoy,” he said.
I fully intended to.
