Page 78 of Bound By the Sleeper’s Harp

An idea came to me. “Do you think we could have dinner down here?”

Perhaps it was a bit too romantic a setting, but with our pasta and a bottle of wine, this little slice of heaven would be transportive.

“I think that’s a great idea. Why don’t you explore while I plate everything up?”

“Okay,” I managed. “Don’t forget the bread in the oven. I don’t want it to burn.”

“You got it, sugar.”

When I turned, he was already disappearing up the stairs.

I walked through the cellar examining the bottles. There was a glass door at the end. I slipped through—right into a cooler room. A shiver raced over my skin, welcome after the intensity of cooking in the kitchen. No, more like the intensity of being in Bastian’s presence. The lights were sensor activated. They clicked on and revealed another collection of chilled whites and dessert wines.

“My God,” I whispered. He was a fucking wine collector. I should have caught the hint when he’d opened a bottle of wine last night, but somehow I’d overlooked it, too distracted by the naked goblin swimming around in the pool.

“This looks delicious,” a voice called from the other side of the cellar. I turned in time to see Bastian depositing plates piled high with Alfredo, peas mixed in. There was a basket covered by a cloth holding our bread. He moved over to the side of the room and plucked a couple of wine glasses for us. “Any preference on wine?”

I made a sound between a laugh and a nervous chuckle. “Considering you’re an expert, no. Something that pairs well with Alfredo?”

“I’ll try not to disappoint.”

There was no way that was possible.

I took a seat, watching as he walked along his collection, fingers stroking the bottles in the lightest caress. He slipped into the cold room and emerged seconds later with a bottle.

Over at the counter he made quick work of the cork, then poured us each a generous amount. A few moments later, my wine was placed in front of me. The sound of ice slushing and then a metal bucket appeared in front of me too, the bottle propped inside to stay cold.

A cloth napkin appeared in his hand. “Allow me,” he said, leaning forward and spreading it over my lap before I could stop him.

He'd thought of everything. My heart fluttered as he took the seat opposite me.

He hesitated, his brows drawing low as if in thought, then he flourished his hand. Music started from somewhere above, the sounds drifting down to us. Classical, this time. “There. That’s better.”

Now he really had thought of everything.

I was in so much trouble.

Bastian inhaled. “Damn, this smells amazing. I’ll have you know, I’m a bit of an Alfredo connoisseur.”

“Crap,” I muttered under my breath. “Knowing how you cook, I’d have cooked something else then.”

“Why? Afraid I’ll be a harsh critic?”

I snorted. “I’d rather you be harsh than tell me lies.”

“Noted. Let’s see then.”

He twirled fettuccini around his fork. I held my breath as he took a bite. His face gave nothing away—absolutely nothing. He swallowed, then his eyes lifted to mine and a smile spread across his lips. “It’s perfect.”

My stomach swooped. He took another bite as I managed to find my voice. “I… You’re just saying that.”

“I told you I wouldn’t lie to you.”

Instead of answering, I picked up my fork and speared a piece of chicken, dragging it through the sauce and stuffing it into my mouth. I chewed and swallowed, then smiled. “Okay, in your defense, this might be the best Alfredo I’ve ever made.”

“See? And I know my Alfredo. It happens to be one of my favorite comfort dishes.”

“It is?”