Chapter 38
EVANGELINE
“I’ve got her.” Alaric dismisses the sommelier with a wave and reaches across the table to refill my wine, keeping his eyes on me the entire time.
“You are so beautiful.”
Cheeks heating, I try to hold back a smile. I’ve been grinning like a fool all night—laughing, too, completely and utterly charmed by this man.
Alaric arranged an alfresco dinner for the two of us in a quiet corner of the Princess Grace Rose Garden. We’re tucked behind a little fountain and surrounded by trees covered in twinkle lights, with electric candles in glass votives adorning the lower branches.
Although this is a public park, we haven’t encountered another soul besides the chef who greeted us, our sommelier, and the server.
Candlelight casts long shadows across the table, lending to the moody ambiance as we sip our wine. All I can think about is how lucky I am to be here, with him, experiencing this moment.
“Did you get enough to eat?” he asks.
I stifle a groan. “I’m stuffed.” Sitting back, I scan the table. “And already dreaming about eating soccas again.”
“I’ll find more tomorrow,” he promises. “Or I’ll learn how to make them myself.”
My heart floats in my chest. This man.
Our meal started with a variety of spiced socca, a Monégasque specialty the chef described as a chickpea crepe. I was wary, like I tend to be with new-to-me food. On principle, I hate crepes. Either be an omelet or be a pancake—don’t try to be both.
Alaric encouraged me to try the tiniest of bites and promised he wouldn’t be offended if I had to spit the food into my napkin.
While I wasn’t concerned about the taste—which turned out to be exceptional—I discovered that the texture didn’t bother me at all.
Socca is crispy on the outside, yet soft and pillowy in the center.
I preferred the plain version that was simply salted and seasoned with rosemary but enjoyed sampling the other flavors as well.
The chef served pasta with garlic and olive oil for me—along with parmesan fresh-grated tableside so I could add it myself—while Alaric’s was served with a Romanesco sauce along with sautéed shrimp and scallops.
I devoured most of a baguette as well. Fresh bread is my weakness. Plus the butter was so sweet and creamy. It tasted nothing like the little foiled packets they give out at the bodega back home.
We ended the meal with flights of fresh gelato.
Alaric traded his mocha cream for my pistachio.
The man doesn’t like chocolate, nor does he consume caffeine on any day except race day.
He swears it makes him sharper. A morning without coffee or espresso sounds like torture to me, but to each their own.
“How long have you had your place here?” I ask, extending one leg under the table and brushing his calf.
His responding arch of a brow only spurs me on. Heat gathering inside me, I let my bare foot trail up toward his knee. That’s as far as I get before he grasps my ankle and runs a thumb over my arch.
“Ticklish?”
I grin. “Not in the slightest.”
Expression hardening, he uses more pressure, testing me.
I shrug. I’ve never been ticklish. If I had to guess, it’s related to sensory processing. I also have an oddly high tolerance for pain, and external temperatures don’t affect me the way they do most people.
When I don’t squirm or pull away, he rests my foot in his lap and kneads into my sole. The pressure is divine, making my mouth go slack as a groan threatens to work its way out of me.
“I purchased my condo five years ago. During Luca’s rookie season.”
He pauses his movements, intent on my face like he’s trying to gauge my reaction to the mention of my ex.
I breathe through the slight pinch of discomfort. If we’re doing this—and my god, do I desperately, wholly want to do this—we’ll have to get used to talking about him.
“It made sense, working for Granata, with no intention of leaving the industry. And with so many drivers residing in the area, Luca was eager to live here, too.”
“Luca lived here? With you?”
“He did.” He dips his chin. “For three years. It wasn’t until Granata was considering me for the role of team principal that he moved out.” He scowls, his gaze unfocused as he mindlessly massages my foot.
“Do you think you’ll be close with him again someday?”
It’s a question that’s been nagging at me for weeks. Luca is an asshole, and Alaric is fully aware of his transgressions, but at the end of the day, they’re family. If and when Luca wants to reconcile… where would that leave me?
Alaric releases a heavy sigh. “His mother thinks this is a phase and that he’ll come around eventually. But I’m not so sure. And the more I learn about his behavior and indiscretions…” He trails off, shaking his head.
Unease seeps into me, so I blurt out the first thing that comes to mind. “Are you still close with Luca’s mom?”
The moment the words are out, that unease morphs into dread. Nice, Evan. Bringing up his ex-wife is sure to spark a pleasant conversation.
“We are close.” He breaks into a gentle smile. “Sophie’s my oldest, dearest friend. She’s intelligent, sharp, and hilarious, and she’s an amazing mother.”
My stomach twists. By how highly he speaks of her, maybe Luca’s not the only person that I need to worry about skulking back into his life.
“We were awful together as a couple, though,” he continues. “Nothing nefarious ever happened. No infidelity. We tried to make it work, but we simply grew up and simultaneously grew apart.”
I blow out a long exhale, the weight on my chest easing up.
“She’s remarried now. With two more kids and another on the way. I haven’t dated since our split more than ten years ago.” He studies my face like he’s gauging my reaction. “You’re the first person I’ve committed myself to in more than a decade.”
My belly warms in response to the confession. I’d have no reason to judge him for his dating history, but that truth bolsters me, wrapping me in a cocoon of comfort and making me feel extra wanted.
He taps my foot lightly. “Switch.”
Obediently, I toe off my sandal and lift my other foot into his lap.
“What about you?” he asks. “Were there partners before Luca I should be aware of?”
“No one significant.” I trace the pattern sewn into the white linen tablecloth with the tip of my nail.
“I’ve dated in the past, but I’ve never been with someone who treated me like I was a priority.
” I peek up, cringing. Maybe I’ve said too much.
“It’s not that I expect to be the top priority all the time.
The opposite, really. I didn’t realize it was possible until… ”
I catch my bottom lip between my teeth to stop myself from finishing that sentence.
Until him. Until now.
The truth hangs heavy between us as crickets chirp.
He tightens his grip on my foot, silently urging me to look at him.
“In case I haven’t been crystal clear, you are of the utmost importance to me, angel.”
I swallow thickly, reaching for my wine to distract myself from the intensity of his gaze.
That doesn’t deter him. “Prioritizing you is a privilege,” he rumbles, his voice low and deadly serious.
I set down my glass and force myself to meet his eye.
“You don’t have to believe me right now,” he adds. “But I’ll prove it to you, and with time, I’m determined to show you that you can always rely on me.”
My cheeks heat. From the wine as well as the rawness of his confession. I’ve always settled for less. But Alaric’s unwavering desire to see all of me sinks into the deepest layers of my subconscious and soothes the jagged, broken pieces I long ago accepted I’d always have to hide from the world.
As I work to steady my breathing and collect myself, he stops rubbing my foot and smooths his hand up my calf.
“Was that too much?” he asks, brow furrowed.
Relief and warmth and giddiness wash over me as I consider the irony of his question.
“It was just right,” I whisper. Once again, his assurances and the way he handles me with such care overwhelm me.
He gently removes my feet from his lap, then slowly stands and reaches out. “I’d like to take you home now, if that’s all right.”
I slip my hand in his, wanting that more I’ve ever wanted anything.