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The sound of his chair scraping back drew her attention to his face.
“Grazie for the cuccidati.” His voice was throaty, the tone deep.
She frowned a little, blinking up at him, oddly disappointed that he was leaving when they were in the midst of a mostly-pleasant conversation.
“Grazie for the WiFi. And the loan of your kitchen. And for letting me stay, come to think of it.”
He was leaving because he was tempted to linger. He was leaving because she was sweet and vivacious and talkative and her lips moved like some kind of beautiful ballet as she spoke, and he was enjoying watching them way too much. He was leaving because when she said she’d feel naked without her apron an image of her naked except for her apron seared his eyelids without his invitation, so that he felt himself grow hard beneath the table. He wanted to reach out and touch her hand, to see if her skin was as soft as he imagined. He wanted to do more than touch her hand; he’d wanted to use it to pull her towards him, to crush her breasts to his chest and kiss her, to hold her against a wall while he kept kissing her, until her breath was just little pants in the cool afternoon air.
He was leaving because he’d never give into that temptation and so it was better to avoid her. At the door, her voice beckoned him, so he turned to face her.
“Why don’t you let me make dinner tonight, by way of thanks?”
Her eyes fluttered closed and her cheekbones lifted with that distracting hint of pink. His chest tightened, his body turning cold.
“That’s not necessary.”
Those fascinating lips curved upwards in the ghost of a smile. “Eating is, actually, kind of necessary. And as for me cooking for you, I’d like to.”
He stood like stone, unmoving, rigid, cold. “No.” The rejection was automatic. He searched for a way to soften it, but was out of practice. “Damn it, Isabella. I’d prefer to forget you’re even here, remember?”
4
SHE TRIED NOT TO think about him, but it was impossible. She put on her favourite Taylor Swift album and cleaned the kitchen, then poured herself a glass of wine from his impressive collection. Hey, she was already, apparently, the worst house guest, so why not compound her sins and help herself to alcohol?
She did take a photo of the label though, and told herself she’d replenish it once she’d left her temporary sanctuary.
Internet Order: one expensive bottle of wine.
Send to: Reclusive, grumpy billionaire in stunning Italian bird nest castle.
Watch out for: His temper.
That wasn’t strictly accurate. He didn’t have a temper – or if he did, it was ice cold. He didn’t lash out. He didn’t yell or snap. He simply spoke calmly, telling her in no uncertain terms at every opportunity that she wasn’t welcome.
The wine was delicious – a buttery chardonnay, that would have been perfect with a good white fish like Barramundi, or a walnut and fennel risotto. Both sounded infinitely appealing; for dinner, Isabella made garlic cheese toast and ate it alone, staring out at the crisp white blanket the snow had made. The moon was clearer tonight, shining like a blade across the mountainside. After a full day of snowing, the sky was clear for the moment, and she wondered if it stayed this way, she might be able to leave the next morning?
Except she’d emailed the owners of the Airbnb she’d booked to stay in and they hadn’t sounded overly optimistic.
We’ve made provisions to be indoors until after Christmas. Weather like this means business! Sorry we missed you this time. Enjoy your travels!
As though she wasn’t going to get to the accommodation at all? As though she might be stranded here for Christmas? The thought brought tears to her eyes, and she gulped down the glass of wine in an effort to abate them.
But Christmas. Here? With this grinch of a man? When she’d planned the perfect Christmas feast in a quaint little village that held a renowned puppet display every Christmas eve? Christmas alone in this stunning castle with a guy who wanted her gone, who wouldn’t sing carols with her or partake in the pudding she made every year or even sit and share a damned meal with her? Surely the weather would clear by then? It was almost a week away…
At that precise moment, the snow began to fall more heavily, whirling down once more, so she stomped her foot then reached for the bottle of wine, glugging some more into her glass.
There was nothing for it, she’d just have to take each day as it came. If she was here for Christmas, then so be it. It sure as heck wouldn’t be the first disappointment in Isabella’s life, and she’d still have her New Years plans. And the American trip to look forward to. She would focus beyond Christmas, just in case.
She rinsed her plate then scooped up her laptop, phone and glass of wine, shivering as she moved through the enormous house. Who would choose to live in a place like this? Sure, it was stunningly beautiful. A lovely place to visit one afternoon and do an historical tour, but to live here?
Who would choose to live here? Someone who desperately wanted to be alone, her mind supplied the answer reproachfully, so guilt tingled in her fingertips.
It wasn’t like she’d intended to crash his solo time. Still, she had, and it wasn’t his fault. She couldn’t be cross with him because he lacked personality and charm, all she needed from him was a roof over her head.
Even as she ascended the stairs, she knew she was lying to herself. He didn’t lack personality and charm. She suspected he had both in spades, just buried way, way down beneath his gruff, grumpy, recalcitrant exterior. He’d come to apologise to her today for the way he’d spoken when she’d first offered him a biscuit. That showed decency, even though he’d reinforced the same message again in the afternoon.
He didn’t want her here. Message received.
