Page 42 of Gilded Saint

Her answer stayed with me into the condominium lobby.

Reality might break you.

Her words stay with me until I step into the living area and find lit candles on a table and Leo’s sleeves rolled three-quarters up his arms, with socked feet peering out beneath his worn Levi’s, standing over the grill.

My heart pitter-patters and my knees wobble. And suddenly, I’m not thinking, I’m feeling. It’s not love, but it is an undeniable attraction. It’s lust. Undeniable lust.

I entered this flat ready to throw down snark, but apparently rolled-up sleeves in a kitchen softens me into the consistency of warm gelato.

“You lit candles.” Paint-splattered and flustered, I say the first thing that comes to mind and immediately regret it.

“Don’t read into it.” With tongs, he flips a piece of meat and the pan sizzles. “Saw you put out candles. So I lit them. Saw the flowers too. And the cutting boards. Nice touches. Sit. I’ve got this.”

Uncertainty washes over me. Is this him apologizing for being an arse? Or does he like to cook?Don’t read into it. That’s what he said.

With his back to me, I place my fingers over my mouth and breathe out. My breath is stale. “I’m going to go take off my smock.”

“Sure thing. Get comfortable. Maybe take off those heavy boots.”

I glance down at my Doc Martins. Mamma hates these boots, and for that reason, I own six pairs of them in different styles and colors.

After sitting on the edge of the bed, unlacing the boots, and letting them fall to the floor, I step into my bathroom and take stock. Frizzy flyaways surround my scalp. A streak of dark paint crosses my cheek, and my hands are stained blue from the paint I washed off back in the studio. The faint smell of paint thinner wafts off my skin.

Don’t read into it.

We have an arrangement. Chances are he’s spent the past two weeks with someone else, or many someone elses. He’s in the syndicate, and while I know little about the syndicate, I’ve gathered the Lupi Grigi respect them. Which means he’s probably not a good man.

Scarlet told me Vincent had been attentive and loving until he wasn’t.

I pull back my hair, taking care to capture the flyaways, splash water on my face, dry it, and add a little blush and mascara.

It’s our first dinner, just the two of us. I should listen to his words. Don’t read into it and don’t expect too much. What I need is to better understand what he wants from this arrangement. It’s like the business professor at university said, I need to understand what he wants. And Scarlet’s wrong. I won’t fall for him. I’ll simply do my best to ensure I remain in good standing so I can pursue my art career. If the marriage lasts long enough, I’ll be like Scarlet, and no one will force me to remarry.

I swap out my tank top for a fresh one, exchange the heavy cardigan for a lightweight one, spritz perfume, brush my teeth, and examine my reflection.

I’m twenty-two. I’m too young to give up on life. For many my age, I’m too young to hope for forever. I’m the exact right age to live for the moment.

There’s nothing to be nervous about. This isn’t a date. Best to go see what’s what.

When I return to the room, he’s sitting at the long kitchen table that seats twelve in the chair closest to the living room. Two place settings are set at one end of the table, opposite each other. Neither of us is placed at the head of the table. An optimist would take that as a good sign.

I swipe my palms on my skirt and sit. He has a steak on his plate and a baked potato split open with cubes of butter melting inside. On my plate, there’s a baked potato, and there are dishes of vegetables, sour cream, and shredded cheeses.

“Since you don’t like meat,” his shoulders lift, “I had Chef create several options for you to add to your potato. Tomorrow night, you can tell the chef to create your favorite dinner, but tonight, I was in the mood for steak.”

He lifts his fork and a knife and pauses, suspending the utensils mid-air. “Is that okay for you? If you want something else…” He glances over his shoulder toward the refrigerator.

“No, this is great,” I tell him. “Thank you for taking care of dinner. I can handle it tomorrow night.”

“You can put that in your potato.” He points with this fork. “If you like. This is supposed to be like a baked potato bar.”

I spoon sauteed mushrooms onto my plate, then lift a bowl of sauteed spinach.

“It’s a jacket potato,” I say. “I typically would add arugula, tomatoes, and burrata, but I’m sure these toppings will be delicious.”

He sets his fork down, picks up a bowl of sour cream, and spoons a dollop into his baked potato.

He poured two glasses of red wine for dinner, and I lift one and offer a “Salut.”

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