Page 22 of My Favorite Kidnapper

He cut into his sandwich, and although he eyed it with trepidation, he placed the slice in his mouth and chewed it, looking thoughtful. He met my gaze. “It tastes like a dinner my mother would have made,” he murmured. “When Paolo and I were kids.”

“Is that a good thing?”

He smiled, the look on his face tender. “Very.” He took another bite. “Delicious.”

“I assumed you ate a lot of pasta with a name like Dante. Or Paolo.”

He grinned. “Our mom was half Italian. She chose our names. I’m named after her father. My dad was Canadian-Irish. We ate both. Pasta. Meat and potatoes. Mom was a good cook.”

“I see.”

“I like this. I see why you come here.”

“Oh,” I said.

“You look surprised.”

“I assumed you were too rich to enjoy simple fare like this.”

“We were just middle class growing up. My mom cooked meals every night. Good, simple food. My circumstances have changed now, but I can certainly appreciate good cooking. I’m not a snob, Brianna.”

“Most rich people are.”

“I’m not most rich people.”

“That much is obvious. But you shouldn’t be here. You don’t belong here.”

He looked thoughtful, then shrugged. “Perhaps not. But you’re here, so I do belong. Now, eat your dinner.”

Surprised by his words and the fact that he’d shared a little something of himself, I dug into my dinner, enjoying it. The meat fell apart in my mouth. The gravy was rich and thick. The potatoes were whipped and light and contained more butter and salt than I would normally eat in a week. He ate with impeccable manners, wiping his mouth, chewing leisurely, enjoying the modest meal.

He took a sip of water, watching me. “You eat slowly,” he observed.

“Yes.”

“You live alone?”

“You didn’t ask Carolina that?” I retorted.

He grinned. “I forgot.”

I had to laugh. He was effortlessly charming. Surprisingly good company. We only chatted about simple things. The weather. The wedding. My surprise he drove an SUV. A red one.

“Easier to find in a row of cars,” he said.

Made sense.

“I live with my cat. Roomba.”

“Excuse me? Roomba?”

I nodded. “She is a major grump. Hates everyone but me, and she only tolerates my presence because I feed her. I found her in a dumpster and brought her home. I named her Roomba because she was like a vacuum. Ate everything in sight for the first while. Still does, given half a chance.”

Dante finished his meal, pushing away his empty plate. He chuckled at my explanation, then frowned as I set down my utensils. “Are you not going to eat more?”

“No, I’ll take it with me and heat it up for dinner tomorrow.”

“Are you full?”