Page 9 of Wrangled By the Minotaur
We head back inside as the sun begins to set, and I guide her to the smaller dining room I’ve prepared for tonight. The table setting isn’t too formal, but nice enough to show I’m taking this seriously.
Over dinner, Frankie cuts into the perfectly prepared osso buco and takes a tentative bite. Her eyes immediately widen.
“It’s delicious,” she says, covering her mouth as she finishes chewing. “Where did you learn to cook like this?”
I lower my gaze. “I didn’t cook it.”
“You ordered takeout?” She glances around the elegant dining room. “From where? I didn’t know anywhere in Sunnybrook did Italian this good.”
“Not exactly takeout.” I clear my throat. “I had it flown in from Osteria Francescana. In Modena.”
Her fork freezes halfway to her mouth. After a few seconds, she says incredulously, “You had dinner flown in from Italy?”
“The chef is an old contact from my consulting days. I called in a favor.” The words sound even more ridiculous when I say them out loud. “Sorry. I wanted tonight to be perfect. I was worried about disappointing you with my cooking, which is mostly limited to cereal and coffee.”
She sets down her fork entirely, staring at me. “You flew dinner in from Italy. For me.”
“It was excessive,” I admit, reading her expression. “I’m still learning how to—”
“No, it’s incredibly sweet.” Her smile is soft, genuine. “And this might be the best thing I’ve ever tasted. But next time? Sunnybrook has perfectly good food. The diner makes killer meatloaf, and Giuseppe’s downtown does excellent pasta.”
“Next time,” I repeat, latching onto the implication.
“I mean, if we’re going to…” She waves her hand vaguely. “Whatever this arrangement turns out to be, you should probably know I’m not hard to please food-wise.”
“Noted. Local restaurants next time.” I take a sip of wine, feeling some of the tension leave my shoulders. “I’m realizing my corporate approach to everything doesn’t translate well here. In business, the more excessive the gesture, the more impressive it was. I’m starting to see that flying dinner in from Italy might be a bit overkill.”
“It’s okay. I’m just glad to know you were as nervous about tonight as I was.”
“I guess I was.” The admission comes easier than expected. “Six months of being treated like the town pariah has been more isolating than I expected it to be. I thought I was done with needing people, but turns out I was wrong.”
She’s quiet for a moment, studying my face. “When’s the last time you had a real conversation with someone? Before today, I mean.”
“I can’t remember.”
“It’s funny,” she says, twirling pasta around her fork. “I always thought having money would solve most problems.”
“It solvessomeproblems. But it creates others. People assume they know why you’re doing things, what you want from them.”
“And what do you want from me?”
It’s more than a fair question, and I’ve been building toward this moment all evening, planning this conversation since I first heard of the foreclosure.
But now that we’re here, I find myself hesitating.
Because what I want from Frankie Baker is complicated. Dangerous. The kind of arrangement that could destroy us both if handled wrong.
“I want to make you a deal,” I begin.
She sets down her fork, giving me her full attention. “What kind of deal?”
“I’ll solve your financial problems. Completely. Pay off the foreclosure before the deadline, cover your operating expenses, whatever you need to make the apiaries profitable again.”
Her eyes widen. “That’s… Wow. That’s incredibly generous. But what do you get in return?”
“You.”
She goes completely still, and all I hear besides my pounding pulse is the soft tick of the wall clock counting the seconds of her silence. I watch her face carefully, noting the way her pupils dilate, the slight hitch in her breathing. She’s not running. Not yet.
