I’d be lying to myself if I said I hadn’t pictured Gia in this house since the moment I bought it.
Hell.
I’d pictured her here when I was looking at the fucking pictures.
Having her here, and having done what we just did, puts my wishful thinking into a whole new perspective.
For so long, I’ve convinced myself that I can’t have her. That she doesn’t want me, and that even if she did, I would have to hide myself from her, never being who I truly am around her.
Now that the possibility to have both exists…
Shit.
I turn. I need something to occupy my time, so I don’t end up just aimlessly pacing and thinking about things that I can’t have.
I open the cabinets.
I can definitely cook something. Cooking will help me keep my mind off of Gia.
At least, I hope so.
* * *
When she joins me in the kitchen, I’ve got a pretty decent carbonara going. The pantry is stocked, the freezer has all the things I need, and I’m halfway through plating when I hear that floor squeak.
Gia pads into the room and settles, perching on one of the barstools at the kitchen bar.
She doesn’t say anything.
I hand her a chilled vodka soda and continue plating. She sips the drink, then nods. “Carbonara?”
“Yep.”
“I didn’t know you could cook.”
“You seem to know very little about me these days, Gia.”
“I know. It’s really annoying.”
I smile at her.
She arches one of those perfect eyebrows. “You think it’s funny?”
“I’m a little entertained.”
“By me?”
Always, Gia. “That I managed to sneak some things by your incredibly extensive spy network.”
“I know. I think I figured out how that happened, though,” she says, sipping the vodka.
“You did?”
She nods.
I slide the pasta in front of her, coming to sit in the next seat. I hand her a fork, taking one of my own.
I wait until she takes a bite. I’m more than a little nervous to see what her reaction is.