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“Coffee in an hour?”
Her heart tripped over itself. He was going out of his way not to push her away this time. It was a small gesture, but it meant a lot.
She nodded, trying not to focus on the relief flooding her body. “Sure. Coffee.”
Isabella found that even after showering and getting dressed, there was plenty of time left in that hour. She made her way to the kitchen and pulled some pastry from the freezer, thawing it and rolling it into croissants, sprinkling them with flaked almonds and popping them in the oven before making the coffees. He walked in just as she finished, and she smiled at him, shy suddenly.
Or perhaps ‘anxious’ better explained her mood. She felt the weight of what he’d revealed to her, and their changing relationship, and didn’t know exactly how to act – nor how he would act.
“Something smells good,” he remarked, lifting the coffee and sipping it appreciatively. And despite the fact they’d spent all night naked in his bed, she couldn’t help letting her eyes drop to his abdomen, the ridges of his muscles exposed and highlighted by his sheen of perspiration.
“I made croissants,” she said. “Well, cheats’ croissants, really, because I didn’t want to faff about with rolling pastry for hours on end. And they’re a pretty good substitute, I have to say.” She moved to the oven, withdrawing the tray and placing it on a wooden chopping board. The croissants had turned a light gold in colour and were steaming from the top.
Pulling butter from the fridge and jam from the larder, Gabe had arranged plates by the time she returned to the pastries. She placed one on each plate, then gestured to the butter.
“It looks too good to eat,” he observed, but nonetheless reached for the pastry.
“I’m sure we’ll manage.”
His laugh fired something in her chest; she felt, briefly, as though she were flying.
“What are you going to America for?” The question was unexpected – and a relief. Though there were many things she wanted to ask him, she didn’t want to make him retrace a traumatic time in his life, nor did she want to dwell on grief. She suspected he’d done more than enough of that.
“Various things.” She cut into the croissant, spreading butter over the soft insides until it melted. “I’m meeting with my book publisher, and a TV producer about a network show.”
His face gave little away, but his eyes probed hers. She turned back to the croissant. “And on New Years Eve, I’m cooking dinner in Times Square for some Hollywood types.” Feeling like that made it sound inconsequential, she shook her head. “It’s a charity even, for a foodbank. I’m really passionate about food – it’s a way of connecting people, bringing them together, but for a lot of people, it’s a matter of survival. The stats on hunger poverty in wealthy countries are truly alarming. All the proceeds from ticket sales go to a foodbank in the area.”
“Impressive.”
She shrugged, self-conscious. “Thanks.”
“Do you enjoy it?”
“Cooking?”
“Entertaining.”
Isabella contemplated that. “I guess so.”
She watched as Gabe lathered his croissant in condiments, then preceded him to the table. She sat opposite him, biting into the croissant.
“That’s not convincing,” he said, biting into his own pastry. “Delicious, grazie.” Crumbs fluffed down his front, sticking to his bare chest. She laughed, reaching across, wiping them off with her fingertips.
“Careful, bella,” his voice held a light-hearted warning. “I’m not done wanting you.”
Their eyes met and a silent promise passed between them.
“So what don’t you love about it?”
“Did I say that?”
“Not in so many words but I can tell.”
“Ah, now you’re a mind reader?”
“I’m observant.”
She sipped her coffee, silent while the balm worked its way through her.
