“With real butter on top, and fruit on the side,” I go on gluttonously. “Any fruit is good. Whatever’s on hand.”
He’s nodding along with all my requests. “Of course. Coffee?”
“Black, dark roast please.”
“Excellent.” He gestures toward a door to his left. “The dining room, Mrs. Bellanti. Your meal will be out shortly.”
“Perfect. And your name is?”
“Alain,” he answers.
I nod. “Thank you, Alain. I’m Frankie.”
He leads the way, opening the door for me.Then he gives a little bow as I walk through, retreating back to the kitchen and leaving me in an imposing room with two Bellanti men staring at me from their places at the table.
Everything in here is mahogany—the massive table that seats twelve, the wainscoting, the carved sideboard. Dark green curtains stand guard over the windows, a triple bowl chandelier casting dim artificial light. The table is set with fine china that has a flourish of gold patterning around the edges, crystal glassware, polished silver cutlery. I take it all in before I notice my husband’s raised brow. Armani is seated across from him, looking far less intimidating.
“What a pleasant surprise,” Armani says mildly. “You’re up early.”
“I always am,” I say.
“I figured we’d see Marco at breakfast before we saw you,” Dante adds, seeming less than thrilled at my presence. “Though he’s apparently still holed up in his room with a woman—possibly two—so I’m sure he’s in no hurry.”
I’m frozen to the spot, not wanting to sit down next to my husband. I see he’s rolled out of bed today still an asshole.Maybe I should just turn around and leave. Dante must sense my hesitation, because he reaches over and pulls out the chair next to him. I guess I have no choice.
“You didn’t have to go to all this trouble just for me,” I say, sitting down gingerly and scooting myself closer to the table. “The formal setting, the fine china, it’s a bit much—”
“We didn’t.” Dante takes a sip of his coffee, looking incredibly bored. “This is just breakfast.”
“Oh.”
My entire face goes hot, my hairline itching. I let this man fuck me last night? Granted, I more or less expected that he’d treat me like this. I don’t know why I’m so embarrassed by it.
Armani glares at Dante as he leaves his seat to come around the table and pour coffee from a silver carafe into my cup. I’m not expecting that at all, and it takes my brain a second to recognize his kindness.
“Sugar or cream?” he asks, gesturing at a small silver pitcher and a dish of sugar cubes.
“Just black is great, actually.” I smile at him gratefully, sipping my coffee as quietly as possible. I’m careful not to let my arm brush against Dante. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” Armani slides back into his chair, his eyes flicking to Dante again, this time with a hint of reprimand. “This was one of our father’s traditions, actually. To start the day with the best and expect nothing less for the rest of the day. Lunch is much less formal.”
I force a little laugh in an attempt to shrug off my lingering humiliation. “Given how successful your winery is, I can’t fault the logic. Your father must have been onto something.”
“He certainly was,” Armani says.
Dante huffs out a breath, but he seems to be ignoring both of us now. How charming.
I’d love to ask him what crawled up his ass, but I bite my tongue. Maybe he’s always like this. Luckily, my food arrives before I attempt any further small talk, on a plate with a silver dome over the top. The other man in the white apron—Alain’s assistant, perhaps—sets the plate down and removes the dome, revealing a picture-perfect dish that could easily be the cover of a food magazine. The aroma of sharp pecorino and sundried tomato, melted butter, and sliced melon makes my stomach clench with anticipation.
“Thank you,” I murmur dreamily. “This looks amazing.”
The man nods and refills my coffee before departing. I lay my napkin over my lap, ready to dig in.
That’s when I notice my husband looking at me from the corner of his eye, but I don’t acknowledge it. He probably has something to say about the huge spread in front of me, but he can stuff it. I’m hungry and not one to pass up the talents of a personal chef.
I take my first forkful and my mouth has an orgasm. This is easily the most delicious omelet I’ve ever eaten. The prosciutto practically brings a tear to my eye, and the toast is so crisp that I don’t even care I’m scattering crumbs all over myself with every crunchy bite. The food is more than enough to distract me from the awkwardness I feel around Dante, and thank God.
Armani picks up where the brothers apparently left off in their conversation before I arrived—something to do with purchase orders and inventory barcodes. I could probably catch on, but I’m too absorbed in my meal to bother. However, I do notice that Dante hasn’t touched a lick of food since I arrived. He’s nursing his coffee and checking his phone as he gives his brother partial attention. Soon, Armani puts his napkin down and sets his fork on his plate. Realizing they’re about to leave, I take a few final, hurried bites. Dante gets to his feet first, then his brother. I take a last swig of coffee, wipe my mouth on my napkin, and stand, too.
