Chapter 25
I was so nervous for Julian to try the sauce.
It was more than just tasting a simple spaghetti sauce.
It was a memory.
A memory that could have gone one of two ways—he’d enjoy it or hate it.
I had to stop myself from jumping up and down and doing a damn cartwheel when he said his mother would have been proud.
He wasn’t lying either.
Julian might not have realized it, but I saw the pleasure on his face.
His eyes shut, his shoulders relaxing, as he tasted the sauce.
Earlier, I’d ordered groceries, and as soon as they were delivered, I started making the sauce. It was done for thirty minutes, and I kept the flame on low with high hopes that he’d come home.
If he didn’t, I doubted I’d cook for him again.
Cooking is a labor of love.
The oven beeps, the heat temperature met, and I slide the garlic bread onto a shelf. Then, I grab the pot of spaghetti and drain it.
Making tonight’s dinner was fun.
It took my mind away from my problems.
Marta said it did the same with her.
Man, how I miss her and Melissa .
I swipe away a tear from my cheek at the same time I hear Julian returning downstairs, now dressed in gray sweats and a NY Yankees sweatshirt. He’s hot as hell in suits but seeing him casual is just as attractive. It also makes him seem more approachable.
“Oh, and thank you for the flowers,” I say, motioning toward the vase on the island. “How’d you know I love peonies and am used to getting them every day?”
He grabs the bottle of wine, tops off my glass, and fills the other. “I know everything.” Taking the glass with him, he settles on a stool.
I roll my eyes. “Okay, why ’ d you get me peonies?”
“You’ve had so much taken away from you suddenly. Your normal life gone. I hoped something as simple as your favorite flower would make you feel like your life could become a little bit more normal again.”
Oh my God.
Speaking of normal … who is this man?
This isn’t my normal Julian.
The one I’ve known for nearly a decade.
If sauce makes him this nice, I’ll keep the stuff in stock.
Can it up and fill the cabinets with it.
“Dinner is almost finished,” I tell him.
He looks around, scanning our surroundings, and his gaze stops on the dining room table. It’s already set, and four candles are lit in the center.
I hate that his eyes narrow in on it.
Like the candles did something to personally piss him off.
His attention slips back to me, the friendliness in them from earlier dimming. “Are we playing house?”
I glare at him, grab the tongs, and open and close them in front of him. “Don’t ruin this night.”
He rears back, cocking his head to the side, and pushes the tongs away from his face. “Just asking a question, Gen.”
“What would you do if I said yes?”
He rests his elbow on the counter and runs his thumb over his strong chin. “Then, I’ll repeat what I told you last night. If I get this every night, coming home won’t be a problem.”
My cheeks burn as I not only remember his words from last night but also what happened. It takes everything in me not to beg him to say those words again.
Some might not consider them romantic, but they’re like a love song in my ears.
Cherished words I want to remember forever.
Julian might not realize it, but his response doesn’t come out as cold or indifferent as he thinks it does.
It’s brimmed with emotion and evidence that even though he’s fighting it, this is more than just an arrangement for him too.
He can try to deny it all he wants, but he was waiting for a moment to claim me without having to admit his feelings. He wanted me before he learned about what my father did and the plan for me to marry Dima.
Julian was waiting for an excuse to make me his.
“When did you get more butterflies?” he asks out of nowhere. “From what I remember, you only had one.”
I hold up my arm, displaying the three purple butterfly tattoos along my right forearm.
“How’d you know I only had one?” I ask, a self-satisfied smile on my face. “Did you secretly check me out all those years you pretended I didn’t exist?”
He stares at me, stone-faced, not as entertained by my joke. “What do the butterflies stand for?”
“They’re for people I’ve loved and lost.” I point at a butterfly. “This first one is for my nanny.”
He raises a brow. “The one who taught you how to illegally count cards?”
“Hey,” I say with full offense. “I never did it illegally until the night at Lucky Kings with you.”
“Smart. You can get in a lot of trouble for that.”
I know this, which is why I never did it before. Sonya’s nephew died as a result of card counting. Though he did it with an illegal gambling ring with the Chicago Mafia, which was just asking for trouble.
“We only did it for fun … when I couldn’t sleep,” I explain. “After her death, I got my first butterfly for her . She was obsessed with butterflies and would always take me to butterfly gardens. I gained a love for them too. We always said, one day, we’d have a beautiful butterfly garden.”
“Did you get one?”
I shake my head. “I asked my mom, and she said no. According to her, she doesn’t like bugs .” I roll my eyes.
His full attention is on me. “If you had a garden, what butterflies would you put in there?”
“ All of them.”
“Do you have a favorite?”
“Monarchs.” I sigh, a hint of sadness hitting me. “But sadly, their population is in decline.” I scrunch up my face. “I wish I could save them.”
“You’d save the entire planet if you could, it seems.” He takes a drink of wine.
“Yeah, well, minus the bad guys, obvi.”
He raises a brow, showing he’s clearly a bad guy .
“Not you ,” I quickly correct. “I’m talking Jeffrey Dahmer, King Joffrey bad guys. You’re just morally gray.” I spin on my heel, turning to the stove to stir the sauce.
“Morally gray?” he asks my back.
I turn on my heel to face him again. “Men who aren’t clearly bad or evil. Complex men who make you question whether their motives are pure or not.”
He licks his lips, rearing back in amusement. “Do you think my motives are pure?”
“Undecided, hence, the morally gray .”
“You let me know when you decide then.”
The oven timer beeping interrupts our conversation. Julian stands, circling the island and grabbing the potholder on his way to the stove. He bumps his hip against mine—more playful than I’ve ever seen him in my life—and beats me to opening the oven.
“You ready for our first dinner date?” I ask as he draws out the bread and sets it on the counter.
“This isn’t a dinner date,” he states matter-of-factly, closing the oven door.
I rest my hands on my waist. “This is so a dinner date. Admit it, or no pasta for you.”