Page 27

Married… married… married…

The chant in her head, however, was quickly replaced by surprise as a panel in the wall opened into a small but brightly lit kitchen with stainless steel appliances and a marble-topped island in the center. It was cozy, with potted ivy plants arranged to hang off several of the built-ins and a well-used cast-iron skillet peeking at her from one of the assorted hooks.

“Sit, Cinderella, and talk. Start with, are you allergic to anything? Garlic? Oregano? Basil or parsley?”

“What are you making?” Vi made herself comfortable at the island on one of the barstools with soft, brown leather seats.

Chiara opened the large fridge, hidden behind a wood panel that made it seem like it was just another kitchen cabinet, and tsked.

“I’m not yet sure.”

Vi smiled. “Then why ask me about garlic or oregano or basil or parsley?”

Chiara turned to her, hands full of produce, and laughed.

“For someone who has lived as cosmopolitan a life as you have, and with your noble blood and royal relations, you’re a peasant when it comes to cuisine. This is pretty much you telling me you were raised as an American without telling me you were raised as an American. Philistines, the lot of them. Because they bastardize Italian cooking and still have no idea what it truly is. And yes, I am very much a snob who is a fan of generalization.”

Eyes sparkling, hands waving, Chiara was a sight to see. Dropping every pretense, she was clearly on a long-established rant about an issue that was important to her. Vi’s smile turned into a full-blown grin, and Chiara’s eyes narrowed.

“Laughing at me now? When I’m cooking you a feast?”

“Well, you were so aggrieved just then about Americans and their lack of gastronomic culture, it was kind of funny. But I do understand what you’re saying… That Italian cuisine is pretty much made up of all those herbs and vegetables. To which I am not allergic. Except to anything olive-related.” Vi shuddered. “I used to call them ‘little poison balls’ as a kid, cause I’d get so sick every time I had them…”

Chiara turned around and gave her one of those looks that would have been comical in how deeply insulted and offended she seemed to be, except she was clearly trying to be sensitive to Vi’s condition.

“Really? Oli—” Chiara stopped midway through the word as Vi shriveled into herself, anticipating it. But she didn’t say it. “Of all the things…”

“You asked. And yeah, unfortunately, I had to tell Zizou, and he damn near laughed his skinny, non-existent ass off.”

“It’s not funny. Health issues are never funny, so you can tell him he can piss off. In fact, tell him Madame C said so. That will teach him.”

“That would put the fear of God in him.” Vi smiled and almost swallowed her tongue as Chiara turned back to her, eyes alight with mischief.

“You think I’m God, darling? How wonderful.”

Vi had to laugh. Chiara was being absolutely adorable in light of this domesticity, and Vi felt comfortable, relaxed, her troubles slipping off her shoulders, and that made her just a touch brave.

“I think you’re trouble. And I think you enjoy teasing me.” Was it the rain that was making her courageous, or the twilight that made everything seem unreal?

“I confess. But only because you’re so puzzled by it. It’s endearing. I hear that you move mountains for Aoife, your vision is unrivaled—in fact, I may need to watch my back—and you have the best eye for perspective I’ve ever seen. Yet you get so adorably flustered, I can’t help it. Never change.”

Chiara’s eyes still danced with the little devils that seemed to have way too much fun, but it didn’t come across like it was at Vi’s expense. Instead, it felt like a warm hug. Like the one Chiara had given her all those weeks ago. The one that had brought their bodies flush together and gave Vi fever dreams.

“I’m just all sorts of sad for you about the allergy. But it’s not a problem. We will improvise.”

Magically, a long, slim bottle of grapeseed oil appeared on the kitchen counter.

Chiara rolled her eyes at Vi’s jaw going slack and turned back towards the open refrigerator, cursing under her breath when it beeped rather annoyingly, signaling that the door had been ajar for too long. The unnerving sound seemed to make up her mind for her.

“Meatballs it is then.” As soon as the sentence had left Chiara’s mouth, Binoche was up and running towards them from her perch on the window. Chiara straightened again, knocking the door shut with her knee, since her hands were now full of various containers. She was carefully balancing her load while also trying to avoid stepping on the cat who was doing her damnedest to get in her way.

Placing everything in haphazard order on the counter, Chiara stepped to the sink and smirked at Binoche, who was now sitting on her haunches by her feet, tail tucked neatly around her paws.

Vi watched, mesmerized by the little dance between woman and cat that seemed to have been performed many a time, despite the two of them only having been acquainted for a few weeks.

Had it really been this short of a time? Vi felt like she had known both Chiara and the little cat for years.

Under Vi’s gaze, the woman in question thoroughly washed her hands, like a doctor gearing up for surgery. Then she turned and, for a moment, seemed to be lost in thought, eyebrows raised, as if surprised at what she was doing. Vi’s heart stuttered, and she was unsure why.