42. Dante
DANTE
Waiting for Rose to come back downstairs is the longest ten minutes of my life.
I want tonight to be a little less formal so she might feel more comfortable opening up about her life, and I can find a way to casually discuss mine.
I set out plates on the kitchen island with silverware and grab two wineglasses for the Chardonnay I opened for us.
I do want her to get to know me, especially if there is any chance of us being together in the future.
I hear footsteps approaching, and when I turn to greet Rose, I am struck by her beauty in a way I wasn’t expecting.
In black leggings, an oversized Pink Floyd T-shirt, her hair in a messy bun and a face free of makeup, I feel like I’m looking into my future.
A future with quiet mornings on the couch sipping coffee or nights staying in, eating takeout from the containers while we watch a movie under a blanket.
All things I have never done nor ever imagined I would have in this life or the next.
My childhood was filled with survival, and after Angelo took me in, I was put to work within his organization once I was old enough.
While Rose is stunning in her suits and makeup, with her hair done to perfection, this is the version I could see myself falling in love with in person, not through a screen and no longer from afar.
I have her here, in my home, in my life, standing right in front of me with a confused look on her face. Wait, why is she confused?
“Dante, is everything okay?”
“Indian food.” Smooth, Dante. First you stand there staring at her for who knows how long, and now you can’t form an actual sentence. Maybe Rose is rubbing off on me.
“Yes? What about Indian food?” she responds, still confused but now with a small smile on her face like my momentary brain malfunction is amusing.
Honestly, I’d do anything for a full beaming smile from her, so if I need to tone down the overbearing side for the night, I can. Well, I can try at least.
“Do you like it?” Good save.
“Yes, I love Indian food. Is that what you picked up?”
“Yes.”
“Ooooookay. Do you need help with it? I can carry it to the dining room or grab plates or something.”
“No.” As Rose gets closer, I can smell her salted caramel and pistachio perfume, and it has me tongue-tied.
I don’t know why I’m acting like a prepubescent teen who’s never been alone with a girl before.
But Rose is no girl; she is all woman, and now that I’ve allowed my brain to imagine a life with her, a real life and not just see her as a job, I’m having a weird feeling. Am I nervous?
“No?”
“No. I mean, no, I don’t need help. And I thought we could just eat at the island. Unless you prefer the dining room.”
“Here is fine.” With that, Rose hops up on a barstool at the kitchen island, and I have to clench my fists at my sides to stop myself from gripping her around the waist and spinning her to face me.
With me standing and her on the stool, we are almost at eye level, and it would be so easy to just lean down and kiss…
no. Pull it together. Focus, man. Last time you mauled her in this kitchen, you yelled at her, and she left. Tonight has to be different.
“I got butter chicken with basmati rice and garlic cheese naan on the side. I hope that’s okay.”
“Oh my god, I looooove butter chicken. It might be one of my favorite meals. There is this Indian restaurant near my loft in the city, and they practically know me by name from the number of times I’ve ordered from them.”
“Hopefully, this place measures up then.” I place several scoops of each item on her plate along with a piece of naan and pour her a glass of wine before filling my own plate.
I wonder if she will recognize the taste of the food, since it’s from her favorite restaurant by her loft.
It’s her exact order, down to the tikka-style chicken instead of the traditional preparation.
“I guess as a butter chicken enthusiast, I will be the judge of that. Thank you again for grabbing dinner and for the coffee this morning. I really did mean to text you earlier, but I got caught up finalizing the sitting room and dealing with some delayed deliveries, so it’s been a busy day.
And don’t worry about the delays. I promise I spent like an hour on the phone getting everything sorted with the transportation company, regardless of how rude they were about it.
Like, you guys are the ones that messed this up, it’s not unreasonable for me to demand compensation, you know? ”
“Which transportation company specifically?”
“Oh, don’t worry about it.” She gestures away with a fork in the air.
“I got it handled, and although some items will still be arriving late, I buffered delays like this into our timeline so it shouldn’t delay the overall agreed-upon completion date.
” Rose chatters away while she eats, so she doesn’t see me nearly crush the wineglass in my grip when she mentions someone was rude to her.
Looks like I will be reviewing her phone calls this evening after she goes to her room so I can deal with the transport company in my own way.
I need to change the subject before my anger gets the best of me.
No one is rude to my Belladonna and gets away with it.
“So, what’s the verdict on the food?” There, that sounds casual enough.
“Oh my god, Dante, it is soooo good! What’s crazy is that it tastes exactly like the restaurant by my place. Do you remember the name of where you got this from? I will have to add it to my list for when I’m back in the city.”
“I’m glad you like it. Have as much as you’d like. I ordered plenty.” I don’t want to lie to her more than I already have, so I will just deflect her question and hope she doesn’t press the issue.
“Well, thank you. Butter chicken is my comfort food, and it always makes tough days better. How was your day? You mentioned you had a meeting in the city?”
“My day was long as well. It’s nice coming home to a house that isn’t empty.”
“Oh, I know! This place is really coming together with all the furniture in place, and most of the artwork is going up tomorrow, but it’s definitely so much better than when you didn’t have any stuff in here. I don’t know how you even stayed here before.”
What Rose doesn’t realize is I wasn’t talking about my house being filled with things, but what makes it feel less empty is her presence. We could live in a shoebox, and it would feel more like home than any other place I’ve lived. She is my home.