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He couldn’t look away from her face. Magic was the best word to describe it. Her eyes twinkled, her mouth smiled, every part of her glowed.
“She’d buy the biggest tree – always a real one, never plastic – and we’d decorate it together over the course of a whole day. She’d play carols, always the same album, and make mince pies and egg nog. Christmas is in Summer in Australia, but she’d pump the air conditioner so we could rug up in ugly sweaters. Dad thought it was hilarious. I think of her a lot, but especially at Christmas.”
Suddenly, his desire to vanquish the makeshift Christmas tree from the kitchen felt petulant and childish. He could go back to hating everything about this time of year once Isabella was gone. For now, he’d say nothing. She deserved some festive magic.
“You’d fit right in with my family,” he drawled.
Her eyes widened but before he could interpret her reaction she sipped her coffee, dropping her face from his.
“They love Christmas,” he explained. “Well, Yaya does, and we do whatever Yaya wants. She has several trees throughout Villa Fortune – that’s where we grew up, and where we still go often throughout the year. All of the ornaments are the same ones she used when we were children, the recipes are family traditions. It’s loud and busy and full of noise.”
“That sounds like heaven.”
Gabe didn’t want to tell Isabella the truth – that for him, it was far more accurately described as hell.
“I’m making a risotto for dinner,” she said. “Would you –,” the sentence tapered off into nothingness and he was silent, waiting for her to continue.
She was shy again, their conversational ease evaporating entirely as she searched for the right words.
“I mean, no pressure of course, but there’s more than enough. If you wanted to eat together?”
Say no.
The denial hovered on his lips; he knew he shou
ld offer it. He couldn’t do this. Warning bells blared.
“Or not,” she said quickly, taking a step backwards, so he felt that she was pulling away from her and an instant desire to grab hold of her gripped him.
“What kind of risotto?”
As though that would make any difference.
“Saffron and champagne.”
He lifted a brow.
“It’s my own recipe. You’ll like it.”
Say no.
“But seriously, I get it if you just want to do your own thing.” She bit down into her lower lip, hurt clouding her eyes.
He needed to say ‘no’. Denying himself pleasure was his modus operandi, so why did he hear himself agree? “Fine. We’ll eat dinner together.”
Her smile was brighter than the sun. “Okay. Dinner. Great.”
It was just a meal, but Gabe couldn’t shake the feeling that he was selling his soul to the devil.
7
ISABELLA WAS COOKING DINNER for a group of celebrities on New Years Eve as part of a fundraiser and also to promote her new book, and she was a little nervous about it. It was a big charity event – tickets had sold for ten thousand dollars each – so naturally she felt anxious that it would go well. But that sense of nervousness was nothing compared to the butterflies that were fanning through her stomach at the moment. She dished the risotto into the bowls with care, aware the consistency was perfect, and the aroma exactly as she always made it. His eyes were on her, she could feel them as surely as if he were touching her, and it was making her blood pulse heavily through her veins.
She’d washed her clothes and redressed in the same thing she’d been wearing for days, pushing down on the silly desire to have something better to pull on – a dress or new sweater, at least. In concession to the event, she’d washed her hair and taken the time to blow dry it, so it hung shiny down her back, the colour of a dark cherry.
Her fingers shook as she shaved parmesan over the top of the rice, then as she drizzled a little olive oil.
“I’m nervous making risotto for an Italian,” she commented, aware that wasn’t even half of the reason for her nerves.
