Stefano lowers his glass. “I deserved that.”
Maverick ignores him and picks up my fork.
Not his.
Mine.
The intimacy of that ridiculous little thing hits harder than it should.
He gathers a few strands of pasta, rests the tip of the fork against the curve of the plate, and turns it slowly. Once. Twice. A neat little bundle forms around the tines.
“Don’t rush it,” he says, his voice low beside me. “Let the pasta follow.”
My eyes flick to him.
That should not sound like seduction.
It does.
Across the table, Livy sighs. “Mama, you’re blushing again.”
“Eat your pasta, Olivia.”
“I am. Mine listens.”
I look to my daughter to find her sitting ramrod straight, chin high, twirling her fork through her pasta with great concentration.
She manages two careful bites.
Then she slouches back into her normal posture and shakes her head.
“Never mind. If I eat that slow, I’ll be old like Steffy before I finish.”
“I’m not old,” Stefano says, shock clear on his face. “And don’t call me Steffy.”
“It’s either Steffy or Number Two,” Livy says. “Take your pick.”
Stefano stares at her for a long moment.
Then he sighs. “Fine. Steffy it is.”
Around the table, everyone has fallen into their own conversations. No one pays them much attention.
Or me.
Or the fact that Maverick is holding a forkful of perfectly obedient pasta in front of my mouth.
I reach for the fork, but he pulls it slightly back.
My eyes snap to his.
“Open,bella,” he says softly.
Like it’s the most natural thing in the world for him to feed me at a table full of people.
I should refuse.
I should remind him that I’m a grown woman perfectly capable of feeding myself.
