Page 8 of Forbidden Lord
“Let’s wait on talking—your father is a master chef.” He also ate his starter.
It was a companionable silence, she thought, as they dug into the main dish.
The food gave her much needed energy and once her stomach was full, she sipped her wine, and relaxed in her seat. “Shall we have dessert?” he asked, pushing his empty plate to the center.
She nodded and removed the silver cloche. “Okay. Matteo, I’m ready to listen, and I will probably agree with what you have to say.”
He sipped his wine and looked out at the evening sky as he said, “Probablyscares me.”
Ominous wasn’t good. And while as adults or even children, they hadn’t been the best of friends, he’d never once been scary. She switched his creme brûlée for his entrée dish. “Then talk, and let’s sort it out.”
Instead of saying anything, he edged his fork into the creamy dessert with appreciation. She finished hers too—her dad really was so talented.
Matteo put his fork down. “As my wife there are obligations.”
She pulled her legs up to her chest and let the cool air of the night relax her, along with the wine. She recited what she’d learned by heart. “The parties. The ceremonies. The dinners. If you remember, we went to school together—I know what is expected.”
He stared at her over his wine glass as he said, “You haven’t had to live out these responsibilities, before now.”
Nice way of saying she was not of his class, and her family owned and operated a restaurant. She sipped her wine and waited for the jolt that comment had created to pass. Once she was calm, she said, “Either way, the whole “how to be a lady” thing was drilled in our heads. What else?”
He lowered his glass and scooted his chair closer to her. “I trust you on that.”
This close, her body had a different kind of spark, a sexual attraction, which was silly. She wasn’t blind to his physical attributes as being the sexiest man she’d ever laid eyes on, but honestly she hadn’t thought about Matteo in an honest romantic sense… ever. He’s been a crush, an unattainable dream. She lifted her eyebrow.
He patted her knee. “We are expected to have an heir.”
That wasn’t a spark. It couldn’t be. She picked his hand up and off her knee but didn’t quite let it go. She met his gaze and tried to formulate her words. Her mind buzzed with questions but nothing focused. She mumbled, “If we don’t… suit, like that, there are plenty of modern ways to handle that… don’t require us being physical.”
His brow lowered. “Would you want to be pregnant?”
In every dream she’d had of her life, married and children seemed the logical future. “Yes.”
His fingers mixed with hers like flour and melted butter as he asked, “Are you willing to find out if we… suit.”
This was how she turned to mush. Her mind screamed “friend” but she lowered her lashes, took a deep breath and asked on a sigh, “Kiss me?”
“Now?” He scooted out of his chair. His took out her ponytail and hand ran through her waves and every hair on her body stood at attention.
The brush of his lips on hers tasted sweeter than confection and this wasn’t the creme brûlée.
As the kiss ended, she said, “I’m willing to try… but…”
He released her, his touch lingering with reluctance and she wanted to pull him back—but didn’t. Matteo took his seat and said, “I’m listening.”
The heat that rose in her cheeks irritated rather than sent pleasure through her veins. His kiss was meant to be savored but that was a bad idea for now. She licked her lips and once she was sure of herself, she said, “Chelsea was right. I don’t want any other woman around. Not the red-head, not another Patrice, not anyone.”
“The red-head?” He picked up his wine.
She did the same. She sipped and met his brown eyes, refusing to blink. “The last party you threw at your house, the woman you went to bed with.”
He ran his hands through his short hair as he asked, “How did…”
No need to have his voice trail off—that was then, when he hadn’t been married. She scooted closer, and clinked his glass. “We have friends in common.”
He bowed his head. “Chelsea.”
“Yes.” She returned to sitting straight in her seat but let her legs brush his—she wasn’t judging, she just wouldn’t settle for less.
