Page 84 of He Should Be Mine
My eyes refuse to move from the tanned skin of Dario’s naked forearms. The crisp white of his shirt is a perfect contrast. Oh lord, save me.
“Rissotto,” he says calmly.
I blink and try to process why he is talking about rice. Oh right. Lunch.
“It will be ready in ten minutes,” he adds.
“Yummy!” I exclaim dramatically. “Everything you put in my mouth is so good,” I purr.
Dario shakes his head slightly but otherwise gives no indication that he has even heard me. Damn him. How dare he fluster me by flashing his naked arms, and then remain impervious to my counter attack? But fine, whatever. I’ll admit defeat.
I climb up onto the stool by the breakfast bar, plonk my elbows on the counter, and rest my chin on my hands.
I watch him cooking and a strange peace settles over me. I think I like this. Simple domesticity. Add in a couple of kids running around and it would be perfect.
Okay, it would need some tweaking. Make this our house, Dario my husband, and Rick a distant memory, and then add the kids. Then it would be perfect.
I hold in my wistful sigh. A boy can dream, can’t he?
Dario leaves his pot to fetch some plates from the cupboard. It seems like we are not going to talk about my runaway attempt. Which makes sense because what is there to say? We might as well pretend it never happened. That suits me just fine.
I watch silently as Dario dishes up the risotto. See? It is possible for me to behave. I can do this.
His phone buzzes against the counter he left it on. He picks it up and unlocks the screen. His expression is unreadable.
“We are going to the opera tonight,” he says.
I blink. That’s unexpected. “We are?”
“Yes. Just me and you.”
Okay then. The opera. I’ve never been but I’ve seen pictures. Beautiful buildings, stunning costumes. Everything all glitzy and glamorous and lovely.
And it is not this bloody apartment. It is out. In London. With Dario. I don’t know how the hell he has wrangled it, but it is going to be amazing. Maybe this is my reward for trusting him.
I let out a happy little squeal as my feet kick.
Dario’s eyes soften. He smiles. He looks as if he is looking at something precious. Something adorable and special. Which can’t be right, because he is looking right at me.
My heart flutters. Dario is taking me to the opera. I can pretend it is a date.
Oh my god! A shriek of horror escapes me. My hands fly up to my mouth.
Dario’s brow furrows in confusion, tinged with a smidge of alarm.
“What am I going to wear!” I yell, because a catastrophe of this magnitude deserves yelling.
I slide off the stool and run towards my room. Behind me, Dario laughs. The sound is rich and deep and it seems to follow me and wrap around me like a hug. I like the sound. I like it a lot. I wish I could make him laugh every day. Forever and ever.
The opera house is even more beautiful than I imagined. And Dario has gotten us a private box. A little room all lined in red velvet. The chairs are red velvet too. The balcony wall is covered in gold swirls. I feel like a princess.
Dario certainly looks like a prince. His tuxedo is magnificent. Never has a man looked hotter, and he is with me. By my side. This evening really is a fairy tale.
I’m wearing a dress. It is silky, but it is long. It covers everything. I think it is elegant and refined. When I bought it I never thought I’d have a chance to wear it, but I wanted it anyway.
I asked Dario if he wanted me to wear a suit, not that I have one, but this is London and Rick is rich. I could have gotten something delivered in time. But I stepped into the living area in this dress and asked Dario if I should wear a suit instead and he said, ‘No.’
Just ‘No.’Quite forcefully. With no explanation. So here I am. If he is embarrassed, it is entirely his own fault. I tried. I made an effort to be nice.
