Chapter 10 #2
Before I could respond, Lucia bustled into the dining room, carrying a tray laden with enough food to feed half of Manhattan.
Steam rose from a basket of pastries—croissants and something that looked like cinnamon rolls—alongside plates of eggs, bacon, fresh fruit, and what appeared to be homemade jam.
“Good morning, bella.” Lucia beamed at me, setting the feast before us with theatrical flair. “You eat, yes? Too skinny.” She shot Rafe a look I couldn't quite interpret. “Both of you, too skinny. Need food for... energy.”
The way she emphasized “energy” made my cheeks heat.
“Thank you, Lucia,” Rafe said smoothly. “It looks wonderful.”
She patted his shoulder with motherly affection, then disappeared back toward the kitchen, humming something that suspiciously sounded like a love song.
I reached for a croissant, tearing off a piece and watching the buttery layers separate. “So this is what, a peace offering?” I popped the pastry into my mouth, nearly moaning at how perfectly it melted on my tongue.
“If you like.” Rafe filled his own plate. “I prefer to think of it as a reset.”
“A reset,” I repeated, reaching for the jam. “Like we just delete everything that's happened since you carried me out of that club?”
“Not delete. Learn from.” He took a sip of his coffee, watching me over the rim of the cup. “I'm not suggesting we pretend the past few days didn't happen. I'm suggesting we try a different approach moving forward.”
Considering his words, I spread jam on another piece of croissant.
Part of me—the part still stinging from his accusations and high-handedness—wanted to tell him exactly where he could shove his different approach.
But another part, the part that had stood in a doorway last night and witnessed something raw and genuine, hesitated.
“What did you have in mind?” I finally asked.
“For starters, I'd like to know what your plans are for the day.” He speared a piece of fruit with his fork. His tone casual but his eyes focused intently on my face.
Chewing slowly, I bought myself time to think. “I arranged for my dance classes to be covered this week, but I'd like to teach them myself. The studio's only a few blocks from here.”
“You mentioned teaching before.” Interest flickered in his expression—genuine interest, not the polite facsimile he usually offered in social settings. “What kind?”
“Ballet, mostly. To children.” I shrugged, trying to downplay it. “It doesn't pay much, but I enjoy it.”
“How old are your students?”
“The youngest class is four to six year olds. Complete chaos, but adorable. The oldest are teenagers, pre-professional track.” I warmed to the subject despite my best intentions. “They work hard. Remind me of myself at that age.”
Rafe nodded, something almost wistful crossing his features. “I'd like to see you teach sometime.”
The comment caught me off guard. I pictured Rafe in his immaculate suit, perched on one of the tiny chairs in the studio while a horde of tutu-clad five-year-olds twirled around him. The image was so absurd I almost laughed.
“I'm serious,” he said, reading my expression with uncomfortable accuracy. “I'm curious about what you love.”
There was something in the way he said it—what you love, not what you do—that made my throat tighten unexpectedly.
“Maybe,” I managed finally. “If you're really interested.”
“I am.” He checked his watch, then folded his napkin beside his plate. “I should get to the office. There's a car waiting to take you wherever you need to go today.”
“You don't need to—”
“I know.” He stood, adjusting his cuffs in that particular way he had. “But the offer is there if you want it.”
I nodded, unsure how to respond to this new, accommodating version of Rafe. He moved toward the door, then paused and turned back to me.
“Would you join me for dinner tonight? There's someone I'd like you to meet.”
My fork froze halfway to my mouth. “Someone?”
“Well, two someones. My grandparents.” Something softened in his expression. “They’re insistent about meeting my new wife.”
I set my fork down slowly. “Your grandparents know we're married?”
“They read the New York Post. Everyone knows we're married.” A rueful smile played at his lips. “They called this morning to inform me that if I didn't bring you to dinner tonight, they’d disown me.”
“Sounds like my kind of people,” I said before I could stop myself.
His smile widened into something genuine, transforming his face in a way that made my pulse skip. “They are. Especially my Nonna. You'll like her.” He paused. “And she'll like you.”
I wanted to refuse on principle—to assert some control over this situation that still felt like it was careening wildly out of my grasp. But curiosity won out over pride. “What time?”
“I'll pick you up at seven.” He hesitated, then added, “Wear something nice. Not for me,” he clarified quickly. “For her. She's old-school Italian. Appearances matter.”
I nodded, already mentally cataloging the limited wardrobe I'd brought with me. “Seven it is.”
He lingered a moment longer, his eyes studying my face as if memorizing it. Then he was gone.
I stared at my half-eaten breakfast, trying to make sense of what had just happened. Rafe apologizing. Rafe showing interest in my dance classes. Rafe inviting me to meet his grandparents.
It didn't track with the cold, manipulative man who'd blackmailed me into marriage. Didn't align with the controlling bastard who'd accused me of cheating after one day of our sham union.
But it did, strangely, fit with the man I'd glimpsed in the darkness, pouring his soul into piano keys.
I wasn't sure which version was real or if any of them were. But as I finished my coffee and watched the sunlight play across the fine china and crystal, I realized I was more curious to find out than I wanted to admit.