Page 72 of Under the Mistletoe
I tilt my head. “You do?”
“You had on a vintage Prada outfit, walked into my office, and when I lifted my head, I felt like a lightning bolt hit me right in the chest the moment my eyes hit yours.”
“You did?” I grin. I felt the same. I remember being nervous, but seeing him had my emotions all over the place.
“Hmmm, then you rejected me. That stung,” he admits, and I roll my lips.
“Well, I needed to make you work for it,” I tease.
“There was no way I was going to let you say no. I needed to see you the next day so I trekked all the way to the sprinkler shop.”
“You did look a little out of place.”
“I think your uncle likes me now, though.”
“They love you. Just like I do.”
“Maybe we should go back to the penthouse… but… we’re here,” he says, grinning, before he opens the door and steps out, and I follow him quickly, looking around at the beautiful yet very residential street.
“Where are we?” It’s a beautiful street. Old buildings, quaint, quiet.
“San Carlo. Come.” He offers me his hand, and I take it as we step toward a home nearby.
“What are we doing?” I whisper, like we’re not meant to be here.
“We’re doing a traditional Italian family cooking class,” he says, coming to a stop at the front door, and I blink a few times.
“A what?”
“We’re here to learn how to cook traditional Italian pasta and eggplant parmigiana, which we’ll then stay and eat for dinner with a lovely woman, who’s the grandmother of one of our workers here in Milan. Her food is the best, and she’s excited to teach us her ways.”
The door opens, and there stands an older woman, who can’t be more than four feet tall, with an apron on, looking at Donovan with a big grin.
“Ahhh, Donovan, tesoro mio, vieni qui!” she says, and my eyebrows rise as Donovan leans over and she pulls him down to her level, kissing both his cheeks.
He greets her in perfect Italian as I stand, dumbfounded, before she turns her attention to me.
“And who is this bella ragazza? Look at you, eyes like summer and a smile that could melt my cannoli.” She clasps my hands without hesitation. “Welcome, amore. If Donovan brought you, you must be special. Come, lets cook.”
She pulls me inside, and Donovan grins. We get busy in her small kitchen, making all the food, learning new tricks, cooking all afternoon and eating all night, a picture-perfect day in Italy.
30
Donovan
Milan is usually crazy, and this week is no exception. The only thing keeping me sane among it all is Jessica. Seeing her be a tourist this past week, especially when I took her out for the afternoon, made my heart grow bigger than I thought possible.
Although since our night of making Italian food together, I’ve barely had time to see her. We’re both up early, me off to fashion meetings, her meeting logistic suppliers, networking with business associates, and on days like today, over an hour away visiting our factory here in Italy and I hate it. She’s too far away and it makes me uneasy.
“Are you okay, Donovan?” Bentley looks at me from across the table. We’re at an industry meeting; all the big guns are here.
“Fine. Why do you ask?” I look at my watch for the hundredth time today. I force my hands to do anything else but look at my cell to see where my driver is, ensuring Jessica is collected and on her way back to me.
“Well, that’s the tenth time you’ve looked at your watch in the past five minutes.” Bentley gives me a knowing look, and I sit back in my chair and blow out a breath. He’s right. I’m being an idiot. I survived without her by my side for a long time; I don’t need to be pining over her now.
“Clearly, you chose the option with the fifty percent risk?” His bushy eyebrow rises, but his small grin tells me he knows the answer already.
“What, you haven’t seen the papers?” I throw back at him, because the media are having a field day. My PR team is in daily contact with me on how to navigate it all.
