Chapter 25
After I’d dried off and changed into a fresh pair of jeans and top (both items tighter and more becoming), I twisted up my wet hair and secured it with a grip.
Hearing the clatter of Mitch getting down dinner plates from the cupboard, I quickly swiped mascara smudges from under my eyes and rubbed on some clear lip-gloss, looking at myself in the dressing-table mirror.
My cheeks were pink, and my eyes shone. It was probably the bath and the wine that were making me glow, I told myself.
But I had a strong feeling it had more to do with Mitch paying me attention.
I loved him looking at me, touching me. He made my body throb with desire, and I felt alive when I was with him.
I stared at myself, knowing I was at a crossroads.
It was a case of either wimp out or tell Mitch how I felt, even if it meant he didn’t feel the same.
But suddenly I had a strong urge to be brave for once in my life.
Fuck it. I was going to have to put on my big girl pants if I wanted him. And I really wanted him.
I followed my nose to the kitchen, where Mitch was ladling thick meat sauce onto two massive plates of spaghetti from the largest saucepan I owned.
A mound of grated cheese rested nearby. No green vegetables in sight.
It wasn’t what I’d normally eat for dinner.
But fuck healthy salads; my mouth was watering.
‘That looks amazing,’ I said to him.
‘Hope you’re hungry. I made quite a lot.’
I nodded, my stomach growling. ‘I could eat a horse.’
Mitch grinned at me and began sprinkling on the grated cheese. ‘Go through to the lounge,’ he said, ‘I’ll bring it through. Can you take the wine with you?’
Glancing at the counter, I saw he’d opened the other bottle. A red.
I opened my mouth to say, you shouldn’t mix white and red wines, but shut it again. It would sound critical, especially after the trouble he’d gone to making dinner.
Actually, as I took the wine and went through to the lounge, had anyone ever made me dinner before? Surely Benedict must have? I racked my brains to remember, but could only come up with sandwiches, instant noodles and soup. Hardly cooking.
I was expecting that we’d eat on the couch, which was making me nervous.
Red wine and spaghetti were not ideal fare for keeping a couch clean.
But Mitch had discovered the small folding table I kept in the hall cupboard, and he’d set it with placemats and cutlery.
A round French vanilla candle in a glass jar, one I’d forgotten I owned, had also been lit and was adding a golden, fragrant ambience to the room.
It all looked very… intimate. My chest tightened, and my palms started sweating.
I had no idea how to act in this situation, or how I was going to work my feelings for him into the conversation.
Mitch came into the room carrying two steaming plates and a roll of paper towels under his arm. He deposited the plates on the placemats and held out a chair for me as if we were in an expensive restaurant.
‘This is… nice,’ I said weakly, sitting down. ‘You didn’t have to. We could have eaten on the couch…’
Mitch tore off a couple of paper towels and raised an eyebrow. ‘Are you kidding? I made spaghetti, and we’re drinking red wine. The odds of one or both of us spilling something are 99.9%. I put my money on you, actually. I’m a neat spaghetti eater.’
I huffed a laugh, my nerves relaxing a little. ‘That remains to be seen.’
Mitch poured out the wine. ‘Dig in. I was going to cook garlic bread too, but I ran out of time.’
‘This is more than enough!’
Picking up my fork, I twirled it in the pile of spaghetti and meat sauce and managed to, rather daintily, I thought, transfer it to my mouth.
My eyes widened at the taste; rich and flavourful with a subtle hint of herbs.
I wasn’t a gourmet by any stretch of the imagination, but I appreciated good cooking.
‘Is it okay?’ Mitch asked.
‘It’s bloody fantastic,’ I said, finishing my mouthful and diving in for another scoop.
‘Glad you like it,’ he replied quietly, starting on his own meal. His brow smoothed and he looked relieved at my reaction. Was he really that worried about what I thought? Well, he didn’t need to be.
‘How come you can cook so well?’ I asked after taking a sip of red wine.
‘I worked at an Italian restaurant in Peckham for a few years when I was younger.’
‘As a chef?’
‘No, as a waiter. But I got to take home leftovers, and I asked a lot of questions. The head chef, Lorenzo, was from Sicily and only too happy to share his mamma’s recipes and cooking tips. I used to experiment at home and see if I could get my dishes to taste as good as his.’
This was interesting to hear. I leaned forward. ‘Did they?’
‘After maybe fifty tries. There were a lot of burnt pans and overcooked pasta thrown in the bin.’
I giggled at that, loving hearing about his life before Suite Noir. I wanted to know more. I wanted to know everything.
Mitch handed me a paper napkin. ‘You’ve got sauce on your…’ He indicated his chin, and I hurriedly wiped it off.
His chin, I noted, was sauce-free, and so was the table around his plate. Mine, in comparison, looked like a murder scene with red splatters everywhere since I’d been digging in with gusto. Dammit, he was a neat spaghetti eater!
‘Anyway, that was a long time ago. And I’ve moved on from being a waiter.
Now I’m an architect. Though I can’t draw a straight line to save myself.
’ He gave a self-deprecating laugh, and I said nothing, concentrating on finishing up the rest of my spaghetti.
I didn’t really want to talk about Suite Noir.
Mitch laid down his fork and leaned back in his chair. He took a sip of wine and gazed at me over the rim of his glass.
‘Speaking of which, there’s something I want to tell you, Primrose,’ he said, his voice lowering an octave and doing that gravelly thing that gave me goosebumps. My heart did a little skip, then a thump-thump at the way he was looking at me.
‘Yes?’ I said expectantly. Maybe I wouldn’t have to go first. He could tell me he’d fallen for me, and I’d nod and agree that I’d fallen for him too, and then that would be that out of the way. He’d have to get another job, but I could help…
‘Thanks to you, my back is feeling much better, and I think I should head back to work and my own flat tomorrow,’ said Mitch, interrupting my train of thought.
My face froze. What? That wasn’t quite what I’d been expecting him to say.
‘Oh, I guess you probably should,’ I said frostily after a beat.
A tidal wave of disappointment flooded me.
This wasn’t a romantic dinner. It was a “thanks for the first aid”.
He’d cooked me a meal to soften the blow of his moving out.
Because he’d probably guessed after my outburst in the kitchen that I’d got attached to him being here. Shit.
I tightened my grip on my fork and tried to look unconcerned. ‘So… so you’re happy to keep on at Suite Noir then? After what happened?’
Mitch nodded, watching me as if daring me to stop him...
but maybe I was just imagining that. He sipped his wine.
‘Sure. I mean, I’ve got about three weeks' worth of appointments lined up, so I’ll be back into it with a bang, so to speak.
Can’t disappoint all those sexually frustrated women, can I? ’
I pulled nervously at my stained napkin, tearing it in half as I died a little inside. Mitch having appointment after appointment, pleasuring a bunch of horny women, was going to be torture.
‘Indeed,’ I said faintly.
‘I’m having a chat with Mia tomorrow morning,’ said Mitch, twirling the leftover wine in his glass.
I drained the dregs of mine, unsure how I was managing to stay professional, as the stabbing pain in my heart was making me want to howl. Forcing a polite but miserable smile, I said, ‘Yes, she mentioned that.’
Wow, he’s really keen to get back to fucking, I thought, starting to feel hot with annoyance. What was I? Chopped liver? Blinking back tears, I grabbed his empty plate and stuck it on top of mine.
‘Well, I might wash up. Thanks for dinner. It was delicious,’ I mumbled. I couldn’t, just couldn’t, sit there a moment longer and look at his gorgeous face without wanting to kiss it and smack it simultaneously. Standing up with the plates hastily, I made to leave.
‘Wait, Primrose,’ said Mitch.
I turned hopefully. ‘Yes?’
He drained the rest of his wine and placed his empty glass on top of the plates. Then dabbed his lips and added his napkin. He looked up at me, his lips curving. ‘There you go.’
I stared at him wordlessly, then turned on my heel and stalked out of the lounge with my arms full of dirty dishes.