Page 120 of When Hearts Surrender

Once I feel my emotions settle, I venture to the kitchen, eager to find something to distract myself. I think back to the slumbering man in the bedroom, how he gave me so many adventures, some I didn’t even ask for but ended up needing, how he saved my life two days ago, and I make a decision.

I’m going to cook for him. The way to a man’s heart is through his stomach, or so I’m told.

He should be honored because I rarely cook for anyone…including myself.

Rummaging through the fully stocked pantry and refrigerator, I pull out the things I think I need, my earlier sadness temporarily chased away by a frisson of panic as I realize I have no idea what I’m doing.

Fifteen minutes later, I’m chopping vegetables for my Asian-inspired spaghetti, since they don’t have vermicelli noodles here.

Maxwell’s soft chuckles fill the air as I feel his heated presence behind me.

“You’re a bad influence,” I say.

Not bothering to turn around, I bite back a smile as I huddle over the cutting board, trying my best to cut the bell peppers without taking off one of my fingers.

“Why?”

“I’m over here, frolicking with you instead of working on my deadline.”

“Frolicking?” He snorts. “Not showing up to work is your idea of breaking the rules? God, you’re so cute.” He snakes his arms around my waist and presses his warm body against mine.

“I called in sick! But I’mnotsick!” I whisper, which feels silly because there’s only two of us here. “And I still have a deadline to make the pieces for the collection before the fashion show. Gordon may be gone, but I have a new boss and the other designers are watching. I really want to prove to them I’m there because of talent, not because of my last name.”

Twisting around, I look up, finding his gray eyes crinkling at the corners, a thick lock of dark hair falling over his forehead. “I can’t just drop everything and play house with you, Mr. Bad News.”

Maxwell chuckles, the light in his eyes reminding me so much of the day I met him. “It’s only for a weekend…for our honeymoon.”

“This betternotbe theofficialhoneymoon, mister. I want at least two weeks off, preferably three, with advanced notice next time. I may be nice and easygoing, but notthatnice.”

“Fine, Your Majesty,” he says. At my cocked brow, he adds, “You married the frigid king. You think you aren’t going to have a fancy title?”

I snort.

“Where would you want to go?” he whispers.

There’s really only one answer. It’s a place I’ve always wanted to go with the person I love. So much I’ve resisted going by myself because I want to save that experience for when I meetthe one.

“Venice.”

His breath catches. A flash of something crosses his face.

“What? You don’t like Venice?”

“No, it’s not that.” He swallows, a muscle pulsing in his jaw. “It’s just…I had a dream…” He shakes himself and strains a smile. “Ignore me. I’m not fully awake yet.”

Hm. That was odd. But we all have our moments.

“I think it’s so romantic to go to there with your partner and listen to beautiful songs while sitting on a gondola.” I grab his arm. “Maybe we can even listen to ‘Nessun Dorma’…live.” I waggle my brows and he chuckles.

“Anything you want, Belle. Anything you want.”

He peers over my shoulder at the cutting board, and his lips twitch. I see him fighting against an impulse to say something.

I narrow my eyes. “What?” I ask flatly.

“Nothing.”

“Your face isn’t nothing. You forget, I can read you like an art critic can appreciate a Monet. Spill.”

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