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She’d cross whatever looming bridge that unexpected emotion caused later.
For now, she was happy to feel loved.
And, Dio, she was more than happy for him to make her feel well-fed.
13
They finished eating, their conversation relaxed and light.
A deep, dark anger seethed inside Angus the whole time. He had to keep unclenching his fist. The betrayal Elisa had experienced… If he ever met her ex…
No. Stop. That was Dad’s way. Not yours.
Still…
“Dessert?” he asked. “I make a mean bowl of ice cream.”
Elisa’s eyebrows raised. “You make ice cream?”
“Well, bymakeI mean I’m very good at taking the lid of the tub I have in the freezer and scooping it into a bowl.”
She laughed.
He grinned. “I suck at desserts. I’d offer to call Heather, my pâtissier, and have her come make us one of her famous deconstructed passionfruit pavlovas, but she’s rostered on tonight and well, I don’t want to share you with anyone, if that’s okay?”
Her cheeks blushed with a delicious faint pink tinge. “I don’t want to share you with anyone either.”
Fuck, he was totally in love with this woman.
He rotated his wineglass. If she’d noticed he hadn’t drunk any of the pinot gris in it, she hadn’t commented. In fact, she’d only had a few sips of her own.
He didn’t drink alcohol. Ever. But he enjoyed the way wine moved in a glass. The beauty of the glass itself. The delicate scent of a good wine on the air, accompanying good food.
Good company.
His father had drunk whiskey. His mother, vodka. Neither ever drank wine of any sort.
“Ice cream then?” he asked.
She nodded.
He straightened from the table, collected their dirty dishes and cutlery, and walked into the kitchen. He didn’t need to look to know she followed him.
Depositing the plates, knives, and forks into the sink, he gave her a smile. “Can I get you something else to drink? Water? Juice?”
She shook her head, leaning her elbows on the counter, watching him.
“You have a question?” He snagged a glass from the cupboard and poured himself a water from the tap. “I can see it in your face.”
“I thought all chefs were control freak bastards.”
He chuckled. “Oh, Iama control freak. In the kitchen. At the restaurant.”
“But not a bastard.”
“Not a bastard. I hope.” He let out a soft snort. “My father was a bastard. A bastard with fast fists and swift kicks.”
Her soft intake of breath made his own stick in his throat. “I’m sorry,” she whispered.
