Page 22 of Broken Prince

“Manzo Braciole, it is,” I muttered, mentally thanking Google Translate for helping me.

It took me over three hours to prepare but the divine smell that filled the kitchen was worth the effort.

As the meal simmered, I went upstairs to dress for dinner.

Despite just being a dinner request, probably born of his loneliness, I couldn’t help the butterflies in my stomach to finally talk to him in person.

We’ve been exchanging messages daily for the past ten days and it was lovely. He made me laugh and I enjoyed our talks—the anonymity of the screen somehow making it much easier for me, and I suspected it was the same for him. This was why I’d been so surprised by his invitation. I thought he’d never want to meet me—not in person at least—yet here we were.

I had a hard time reining in these butterflies causing havoc in my stomach as I put on my green polka-dot summer dress. It was still early spring and much too cool to wear this type of clothing, but it was the only decent thing I could wear.

No, it isn’t Cassie; it is not a date.

But my racing heart and anticipation seemed to be thinking otherwise.

I grabbed my white cardigan and kept my face free of makeup except for a little pink gloss. I didn't want to go all out in case I was completely wrong.

Which you are,the voice of reason taunted.

I went back downstairs and set the table for two. Not too close to be too cozy but not too far either.

I put a candle on the table and rethought it about five times, putting it back and removing it every time I was bringing something to the table.

I was just that nervous, overthinking every detail.

It was my first date. I growled at my own train of thoughts. How could this be a date? I didn’t even know the man.

I put the food on the table as my heart started beating faster and faster at the thought of sharing a meal with him. I felt like I was going to have a panic attack just at the thought.

I pressed the red button before having a chance to rethink it and took a deep breath.

He invited you, Cassie; he wants you there.

“What are you doing here?” He barked coldly looking from me to the table set for two.

Or maybe he doesn’t…

“I…what?” I frowned, taking a step back toward the door.

“You know the rules, Ms. West. There aren’t many.”

“Y-you asked me to dine with you.”

“I did no such thing,” he replied, staying in the confines of the darkness. “Is it why you dressed up?”

“I—” I wanted to die at that moment, hoping that the plush burgundy carpet would just open and swallow me whole—taking my embarrassment along with it. “Sir, I’m sorry, the message—”Just shut up, Cassie, and walk away now. “Sorry,” I repeated, turning around and rushing away.

“Stop!” he commanded just as I reached for the knob.

I froze, keeping my hand on the door.

He sighed. “Since you did all of this—let’s eat.”

I felt the light dim behind me, and I turned around slowly as if I were facing a rabid animal, and part of me was certain I was.

He was sitting at one end of the table, his hood up, only faintly lit up by the fireplace.

His head was bowed down, stopping me from seeing his face. He looked even more imposing like that, his hands strong and wide—tightened into fists.

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