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I huff out a breath and step forward, stopping short just inside when I see there’s only a set of stairs leading up to a door. Abraham is right behind me, and before I can overthink it, I start to walk up the steps, desperate to put some space between us.
Being here, in this hallway, alone with him, reminds me that I have no real idea what I’m doing here, aside from satisfying a curiosity. Or perhaps I just like being wanted. And now I want to see what it’s like to be devoured.
“Excuse me,” he says as he reaches around me, pushing a key into the lock of the door at the top of the steps. He holds this one open too and when I step inside, I don’t expect it to look like it does.
Eclectic and full of life; plants everywhere and the smell of food and some kind of manly scent joining together to remind me that a man indeed lives here.
“What do you think?” he asks, setting his key on the small table next to the door before he closes it. And now we’re completely alone.
I swallow before I speak, reminding myself that I agreed to be here. And that I’m a grown woman who can handle whatever comes of this. Even if it’s nothing. Especially if it’s nothing.
“I like it,” I answer, turning through the space and admiring what appears to be the living room. “You must have a green thumb.” It would be impossible not to, with the number of plants covering most surfaces.
“Ah, yes,” he answers, and I face him to catch sight of his distant smile, his gaze unfocused. “One of the only things I got from my mother.”
This is the first mention of anything deeply personal from the once Italian man before me and I bask in the intimacy of it. But I know what it’s like to have a complicated history with family so I don’t ask anything further, opting instead to glance at the set table a few feet away.
“You mentioned food…” I start, and he nods, walking toward one of the chairs.
“Yes, yes. Come, sit, eat.”
When I approach, he rushes to the other side and pulls my chair out. I glance down at the table and grin at the lasagna, salad, and bread that waits for us.
“You made this?” My words are an octave higher than I anticipated, but Abraham just chuckles.
“I told you I’m Italian. Food is my love language.”
“And what is it you’re trying to say?”
“Let the food do the talking,Stellina.”
I almost ask him what that word means but he’s pouring me a glass of chianti and I’m so swept up in the effort this must have taken.
When he’s settled in his seat and we’ve started our salads, I finally ask the question I’ve been thinking of for weeks.
“What made you change your mind?”
“What do you mean?” He sets his fork down and leans forward, placing his chin on his joined hands, his elbows propped up on the table.
“You can continue eating,” I reassure him, continuing to stab at my salad.
“Are you uncomfortable with my undivided attention?”
“What made you decide to stop being an asshole to me?” I ask instead of answering his question. I hate lying, but I refuse to share just how much he gets to me.
Another shrug from him before he answers, placing his palms on the table.
“I could either make both of our lives hell, remove you from my class, or see if the attraction I felt that night was real.”
“You’ve been attracted to others,” I remind him before taking a bite of my salad.
“Ah, the incident in my office,” he nods, watching the fork slide from between my lips. “There will always be young women with Hollywood dreams willing to fuck me for a chance.”
“Don’t sound so crass. It seems like you’re the only one getting something out of that deal.”
“If you’d like me to apologize for being a pig, I will.”
“Only if it means you won’t act like a pig ever again.”
