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Done with that, I clap my hands together and observe. So far I have flour, chicken, butter, spices, eggs, milk, and spinach. I have no idea why I picked them, but they just felt right.
“What are you doing?”
I jump at the sound of Benedetto’s deep voice and shrink when I meet his intense honey eyes just on the other side of the kitchen island.
“What does it look like I'm doing?” I shrug, “I'm trying to cook.”
“Cook what?” He scrunches his nose.
“Food, um…” I stutter, “Chicken and flour kind of food,” I giggle, “It’s a recipe that um…”
“Are you hungry?”
“No, no, I just… you know.”
“Rosaline, if you are hungry, I can make you something,” he makes a move to come to me but I hold up my hands.
“I want to cook.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s a new hobby,” I chuckle.
“Cooking is a new hobby?”
“Yeah…” I snort.
“Rosaline, I will ask you one more time and I will need you to tell me the fucking truth. Why are you cooking?”
I open my mouth but words dry out and I just keep it open, blinking and trying to revive my brain to whisk up something.
“I wanted you to see me differently,” I blurt, “I just have a horrible track record, Benedetto, and I wanted you to see me as a better person.”
He cocks his eyebrow, “A horrible track record?”
“You know…”
“I don’t know,” he clips, “There’s no need for all of that by the way,” he waves one hand in the air as if swiping this off, “If you are free tonight, I was thinking to take you to dinner, there’s something I want to talk to you about,” he clears his throat.
“Something you want to discuss but cannot just say unless you take me to dinner?”
He nods, “That’s what I said.”
I shake my head, “What if I don’t want to hear it?”
“You have to want to hear it, it’s something that will be good for you, I can assure you.”
I chuckle, knowing in my guts I already know what this is.
I’m going back to New York.
“I’ll see you later tonight then,” I force a smile. At least he has the decency to make a deal out of it, instead of ghosting me or making me feel useless till I leave myself. He is making me leave with my self-esteem still salvageable.
“I will send a dress to you. And do you like roses?” He leans on the kitchen island.
“No, I hate roses and you don’t have to send a dress or anything.”
“It’s a date,” he chips.
