“For starters, you could send him that video.” Vanessa shrugged. “Make him feel what you felt.”
The thought of Victor seeing that video made my skin crawl. But I had to admit, that was the reason I’d recorded it. But I couldn't do that. Not yet.
“I don’t want him to see it yet,” I replied with a shrug. “I just feel better for admitting how I feel.”
“To me.” Vanessa smiled. “He doesn’t need to know yet.”
When I arrived home, the smell of Italian food made my mouth water instantly. Bianci must have dropped off some food—and thank god; I was ravenous. I dropped my keys onto the side table and froze when I saw Victor wearing an apron I’d bought him last Christmas of a naked torso, studying a cookbook. He stirred a pot while concentrating, his lips moving as he read from the book. I stared at him, taking in the firm line of his jaw, the colour now back in his cheeks, and the way he’d filled out a little. Then he looked at me.
“Lila!”
“Hi,” I said awkwardly, slipping my sneakers off with a sigh of relief. “You’re cooking.”
“I am. For us, if that’s okay?” He glanced at me before reaching into the oven and pulling out a bubbling lasagne with lots of cheese.
I’d agree to anything to eat that.
“It’s fine, thank you.” I watched as he nodded at the table, which was already set. I made my way over stiffly and groaned as I sat down.
“Are you okay?” Victor checked, carrying the piping hot lasagne to the table. His brown gaze flickered over me as I nodded, stifling a yawn.
“I’m just tired.”
“After you’ve eaten, you can go lie down.” Victor glanced at me and my stomach flipped.
Goddamn him for being so handsome.
Victor carried a bowl of salad and a plate of garlic bread to the table, pausing as he surveyed the table like it was a crime scene.
“It’s missing something,” he muttered.
“Cutlery?” I suggested, still amused by him in that apron. He’d never worn it before.
“Yeah.” He jogged back to the cutlery drawer, and I helped myself to the lasagna, groaning with delight when the cheese clung to the spoon.
“Okay, this looks really good.”
“Mom has been sharing her cooking recipes with me,” he admitted, scratching his head with embarrassment.
I paused, my fork in mid-air. “She has?”
He nodded. “I wanted to know how to cook decent dinners for the you and baby. She said she’d share them with me as long as I made sure I passed them down to the baby.”
My heart thawed a tiny bit more every time he mentioned our child.
“And I’m your test subject?” I teased, blowing on the food before taking a cautious bite.
“As if I’d endanger you or the baby,” he said, shaking his head. “I hope it’s good; I followed Mom’s instructions to the tee.”
I glanced at the kitchen counter. “I thought you were reading from a cookbook.”
He scoffed. “Mom would never speak to me again. I have to learn the family recipe, apparently. Then teach our kid.”
The lasagne was beyond good—I barely spoke until my fork scraped against my empty plate.
“Victor, that was so delicious.” I leaned back in my chair and stretched my pregnancy bottoms over my ever-expanding bump. I yawned again.
“You go and lie down. Get some rest.” Victor waved me away before returning to his food, digging in with gusto. I rose to my feet, then hesitated…long enough that he noticed.
