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He leads me down the hallway. “I have a formal dining room, but I prefer to eat in the kitchen, I hope you don’t mind.”
“Dear sir, how dare you treat me to inferior dining settings,” I say in my best British accent as I put a hand on my chest.
He chuckles, opens the door to the kitchen, and leads me to the solid-wooden-slate island that’s set for two. He pulls out a high stool for me, and I sit, admiring the impeccable tableware.
Besides the plates and cutlery, there’s a basket of what looks suspiciously like homemade bread and focaccia, a platter of pretty appetizers, and a bouquet of wild flowers.
We live in Manhattan, so I know Gabriel didn’t take a stroll in a field somewhere to pick them. But I like that he chose something less pretentious than, say, a dozen red roses. The more I get to know him, the more I uncover all these different sides of his personality. Ruthless businessman but generous lover. Scary suit and adorable ruffled sweatpants wearer. Stern bossman and goofy brother. Powerful multibillionaire and down-to-earth man, with slightly expensive tastes admittedly, but still not as unattainable as I initially imagined.
I can’t wait to find out the rest.
Showing no self-restraint, I grab a tartine and a piece of focaccia in quick succession, moaning, “I’m so going to steal your personal chef.”
“No need to, you can come to have dinner here every night if you want to.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Careful, you’re diverging from the billionaire romance hero stereotype.”
Gabriel pops a deviled egg in his mouth and chews on it before asking, “In which way?”
“I mean, you’re rocking the brooding looks. But you’re supposed to be this closed-off, gorgeous dude, who is down for lots of sex but doesn’t want commitment, or big emotions involved. At least according to romance novels.”
He laughs. “I’m sure in for the lots of sex part.” Then turning serious, he asks, “Would you have preferred if I steered clear of the big emotions?”
“No, I like it. It’s just not what I expected.”
“I know what I want and I’m not afraid of going after it.”
“There you go,” I say. “That’s the perfect, confident, all-powerful, intimidating attitude.” I pat his cheek. “There’s still hope of making a proper Christian Grey out of you.”
Without batting an eyelash, Gabriel asks, “Should I show you my playroom now, or do you want to wait until after dinner?”
For a moment I’m not sure if he’s joking. Until a grin breaks on his face. “The look on your face…” He chuckles. “Priceless. I think you’re going to be fine with the soft-edged billionaire.”
“Jerk.”
“Shall I bring out the pasta?”
“You’d better ’cause that’s the only reason I’m staying.”
Dinner is delicious, and conversation between us is easy. We talk about work, we talk about family and trivial stuff like movies or music. Everything is perfect. Still at the back of my head, I can’t shake this nagging devil, whispering in my ear that it’s all too good to be true.
By the time the meal is over, I try to push the doubts away—or at least lock them in a dark spot of my mind where I won’t hear them—as I ask, “Am I getting a tour of the apartment or what?”
Gabriel stands up, offering me his hand. “Yes, we should start with the master bedroom.”
“Not leaving things up for interpretation, I see.”
“As if you should talk, Miss Do I Get A Tour Of The Apartment.”
I giggle. “Fair enough.” I take his hand, a thrill of anticipation going through me.
The bedroom is exactly how I pictured it: big and masculine, with a high ceiling, a beautiful hardwood floor, and a stunning view.
What I didn’t expect was the ball of fur curled in the middle of the king-sized bed.
“Is that Latte?” I squeal excitedly.
Gabriel rolls his eyes. “Give it to that wretched cat to steal my thunder.”
