Page 121 of When Hearts Surrender

He wets his lips, his shoulders shaking…from laughter?

“Hey! Why are you laughing at me?”

Loud laughter escapes his lips as he bowls over and presses his head against my waist. The beautiful sound of his happiness would’ve sent my heart soaring if it weren’t for the fact that his happiness is at my expense.

“Oh fuck…so thereissomething my little muse is absolute shit at.” He stops shaking and straightens, his hand caressing my cheek, his eyes shining with tears.

The damn idiot is crying because he’s laughing so hard.

“Belle, what on earth are you trying to make, you serial killer of vegetables?” His smile freezes briefly as if something nagged at him, but that swiftly disappears and he smirks at me.

My mouth drops open.Serial killer, my ass.I turn around and stare at the mess I made. Sliced onions and carrots, mashed garlic, and chopped bell peppers.

I mean, it kind of looks like a Picasso, but it’s edible. The vegetables have been sacrificed at the altar for greater good.

“If Picasso decided to make his paintings into real life, it’d be your knife skills. Half your vegetables are on the floor, and the other half that made it under your knife has sizes ranging from microscopic to gigantic. And are those seeds in your bell peppers? You didn’t take out the seeds? Please tell me you washed them beforehand.”

“Argh!” I scowl and cross my arms over my chest. “You do it then. I was trying to make Singapore style vermicelli because it’s a comfort food I enjoy. It’s the only thing Mom cooks well and her favorite dish to eat growing up in Hong Kong.”

I sigh, thinking back to the rare occasions when I was younger when Mom would fix us some vermicelli noodles as a random special treat. Those were happy times. “Anyway, they didn’t have vermicelli noodles here, so I had to use spaghetti. And apparently, His Majesty isn’t happy with my efforts.”

Maxwell bites his lip, looking infuriating sexy as he nudges me aside. “Thank God we aren’t doing this at home. Mora would have a heart attack. Step aside and let me save your ass.”

I cock a brow and make room for him.

“Go, Belle…stop staring at me while I work.” He shoos me away and gets to work.

Rolling my eyes, I saunter to the living room and walk to the tall, arched windows. I look at the dense forest of towering pine trees, blanketed with snow. A mist is rolling in, the distant peaks of the Tyrolean Alps shrouded in a ghostly fog.

It’s beautiful and haunting, isolating yet comforting. It reminds me of the man in the kitchen who prefers the shadows and is cold under the spotlight, but has the sweetest, warmest personality he only shows to a select few who are lucky enough to see it.

Turning around, I spot a small rosewood table where a gold phonograph sits, and I smile, remembering how Maxwell likes to play his music on a similar one at home.

I turn on the phonograph and watch the needle glide over the record, and the familiar strains of Puccini’s “O Mio Babbino Caro” sounds from the bell-shaped horn.

The wistful violins lead way to the beautiful voice of the soprano pleading with her character’s father to let her be with the boy she loves. Humming under my breath, I walk back to the kitchen to check on Maxwell.

He has a towel thrown over his shoulder and istwirlinga knife before he starts chopping. He sways to the music as he moves around the kitchen.

My mouth drops open when I see him slicing and dicing the ingredients like he’s one with the knife. He takes out a pan from a cabinet, fires it up, prepares the eggs, and sets it aside. Then he preps the onions and garlic, then the rest of the vegetables, and finally the chicken and sliced pork.

He moves in practiced motions, tossing the ingredients in the air, his brows furrowed in concentration as I see the flames engulf the pan briefly, just like the cooking shows on TV, and he finally adds in the spaghetti and sauce.

My man can cook. I’m thrown back to that night in the kitchen when he made me the pastrami and rye. My pulse ratchets up and I clench my core—seeing him move about in the kitchen like he owns the space makes me want to jump his bones.

He puts a lid on the pan, steps back, and tosses the towel onto the counter.

Smiling, I launch myself at his back, and he staggers a few steps. His hands grab my ass as I curl my legs around his waist.

He spins me around and sets me on my tiptoes, my feet on top of his, before he wraps one arm firmly around my waist, the other clutching myhand. He chuckles as we sway to the strains of the music, his sandalwood and amber scent wrapping me in a bubble of happiness.

I place my head on his chest, listening to the reassuring rhythm of his heartbeat before looking at him.

“All we’re missing are two kids and Silas running around,” I murmur, referring to what he told me at the pier the first night we met when he described his dream of having a loving wife, happy kids, and maybe a pet or two.

My heart clenches at his vision, the same one I had this morning, and I bury my face in his chest so he doesn’t see my sadness.

His breath catches. “You remember.”

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