Page 8 of Valentine's Slave

“You’re vegetarian?” For some reason, that surprises me.

“No, I just limit my animal products intake,” he replies. “It’s healthier that way.”

I do have some questions I want to ask him.

The food smells delicious, though I don’t admit that to Valentino, who looks like a dream, cooking food in a full suit, his dark hair falling just past his shoulders in wild waves, his perfectly trimmed beard as dark as his fiery eyes. He could be onMasterCheforThe Bachelor. He could be on a lot of things.

“Is there a reason you didn’t just hire a prostitute?” I ask. We can speak more freely here, with no one listening in. “It would have saved you a lot of cash.”

“My goal wasn’t to save a lot of cash,” Valentino replies, pulling the lasagna out of the oven with a pair of yellow oven mitts. The lasagna is steaming, cheese sizzling on top.

“Prostitutes are probably also great at sex,” I add. Not saying that I’m not, but if he wants an expert, he should go to the right field. Besides, when I’m feeling stressed, I tend to joke.

“They’re probably great at faking it,” he replies. “I want someone genuine.”

“And you think I’m any more genuine than they are?” I ask. “I’m just here for the cash.”

“You’re innocent,” he says, and the way he smiles when he says the word makes me both uneasy and hot at the same time. “You have fight in you. You’re not black and white.”

“So, what am I, Ms. Grey?” I mock.

“If you like that name, we can use it.”

He serves the lasagne with a side of salad and bread and offers me some wine. I hold up my glass. If I’m going to bang a stranger for 50k, I’m probably not going to do it sober. He passes on the wine, however, and pours tonic water for himself.

“You’re not having any?” I ask, suspicion flooding me. Is the wine poisoned?

“I don’t drink,” he says. “But I thought you might.”

“You bought this for me?”

"Exactly."

“But you also decided to make me vegetarian lasagna,” I go on.

Valentino chuckles. “I like to stretch people’s minds.”

I bet he likes to stretch people’s other things, too.

We sit down to eat, and he closes his eyes for a second.

“Did you just pray?” I ask.

“I gave thanks,” he explains. “It’s not exactly the same thing. But life is about being thankful for what you have, focusing on everything that brings you joy.”

This guy is a weird mix of a lot of things.

I fork my lasagne, and I’m loath to admit it’s top-notch. My eyebrows make a subtle movement, and he can tell I’m impressed.

“Vegan cheese, too,” he adds.

“What? No way.”

“It’s made from coconut oil,” he tells me. “Animal-derived cheese has an addictive component in it due to a chemical calledcasein, which can trigger the brain’s opioid receptors. Apart from that, it also makes you feel heavy and is terrible for the skin.”

“Is that so?” I say, taking another bite. I follow it with wine, which is slightly bitter with just the right amount of bite. “Tell me again why you’re paying me 50k? I still don’t quite understand the concept.” More than that, I don’t understand why he’s chosenme.I mean, I’m kickass awesome in many aspects, but we are strangers, and he knows next to nothing about me.

“You won’t understand it fully until we’re more . . . involved,” he explains.

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