Page 25

ISABELLE

S omething smells amazing as I walk into my home. I hang up my coat and bag before I’m attacked by a ball of golden floof. “Hey, Frankston.” I chuckle as I bend down and scratch him. “How was your day?” Am I seriously asking a dog how their day was? He gives me a big lick that makes me laugh.

“You’re home.” Pierre comes out and greets me. He has a tea towel slung over his shoulder with red sauce on it. “Hope you’re hungry, I’ve been cooking.”

“I’m starved and it smells amazing,” I tell him.

The smile that lights up his face over my compliment warms me.

My instant reaction is to hate that feeling but I’m putting into practice what Eve said.

I can’t change the past. But I can change how I deal with it, and as she said, I’ve put Pierre in this box and now I’m opening it up and letting him free.

“When I’m stressed, I cook,” he says.

“You cook?” I ask, surprised.

Pierre shrugs. “My sister bought me cooking classes one Christmas. She thought it was funny, but I went and loved it. I don’t always get time to cook, plus during the season my meals are boring as hell, you know, got to keep the physique up.

” He rubs his flat stomach. “Did you want some wine? I thought you probably had a shit day because of me.”

“Did you go out?” I ask.

He shakes his head. “Got it all delivered.”

“You don’t think the delivery person would have recognized you?”

He grins. “I told him I was sick, slipped a fifty to them to leave the shopping on the stoop and waited for them to go to collect it.” Smart.

He gestures for me to follow him, and I do, still in awe that he’s cooked a homemade meal. The bottle of wine has already been popped, and it seems he’s been having some while he cooks. His phone is playing music softly and the kitchen looks like a bomb has hit it.

“What’s for dinner?” I ask as I watching him pour me a glass of wine.

“Just spaghetti and meatballs, nothing fancy. We haven’t had time to have a proper meal since I arrived. You order out a lot.”

“I’m a busy woman and usually I’m out with the girls or at a function or on a date,” I tell him.

“Do you go out on a lot of dates?” he asks, handing me the glass. Our fingers touch, and I hate the way my body lights up over it. “Or do you mainly stick to your sex club?” Oh wow. He’s going to come right out and ask.

“Do you really want me to answer that?” I ask him, taking a sip to steady my nerves.

He goes back to stirring whatever is in the pot. “I do. I want to know you, again.”

“So, you’re starting with my sex life?” I question him.

“No, it’s not like that. Sam sent over the paperwork for The Paradise Club earlier and I started reading about it and …” He frowns as he concentrates on his sauce pot.

“The paperwork can be overwhelming but it’s not as scary as you think it is,” I reassure him.

“There were some kinks on that paper that shocked me, and I thought I was kinky but maybe I’m more vanilla than I thought.

Is that what you’re in to?” he asks, and I can see his brows pull together as if wondering what kind of depraved things I might be into.

Before I get a chance to answer, he holds up the wooden spoon to me.

“Try this, let me know if you think it’s missing anything …

it’s hot,” he adds as he blows on it before offering me the spoon.

I tentatively taste it and moan. “It’s delicious. I don’t think you can improve that.”

Pierre looks happy with my answer. “Okay, if you’re happy then I’ll start plating up. Go, sit and I’ll bring it out to you.” He starts to move around the kitchen, when I turn around I notice my dining room table is set up for us.

“You went to a lot of trouble,” I tell him, taking a seat.

“It’s the least I can do for everything you’ve done for me this week,” he shouts over his shoulder.

I stare at his taunt back, watching his muscles work.

This wine is going to my head as my cheeks flush.

No, it’s that fine man working in the kitchen that is making you hot.

No one’s ever cooked for me, I realize, which is sad.

The men I’ve dated have always taken me out and because I don’t cook, we never did anything domesticated together.

This is new. And you like it. I do. I’m so used to living on my own that I guess I didn’t realize how lonely it is now that my house is full.

“Down, Frank. You have to wait, it’s too hot for you.

You will burn your tongue,” Pierre instructs Frankston who gives him a frustrated ruff as he watches him place the hot meatball on the counter and starts cutting it up.

I watch the steam bellow from the meatball as does Frankston whose nose twitches with the delicious scent.

Pierre walks over to where I am seated and places the large bowl of spaghetti and meatballs in front of us, then walks back and brings a bowl of salad and garlic bread before returning with the bottle of wine.

“Thank you so much for all this, it’s unexpected,” I tell him.

Pierre shrugs. “You’ve been looking out for me this week, I just wanted to do the same.” He disappears back into the kitchen to grab the cheese before taking a seat. “Dig in,” he tells me. And I do, I don’t realize how starving I am until I heap my plate full of deliciousness.

I wait for him to serve himself before holding up my glass to him.

“Thank you for dinner,” I say, clinking our glasses together.

We both take a sip and look over the rim at each other before we silently dig in.

We are quiet after the first couple of mouthfuls, which are amazing, it’s like eating at my favorite Italian restaurant down the block.

It is so good. I could get used to coming home to this.

“Good?” he asks. I moan. Which makes him fidget in his seat. “So, you um, didn’t answer my question earlier.” I nervously take a sip of my wine. “If you’re into half the stuff on Sam’s kink sheet.”

“Most on there don’t do it for me,” I answer, and he looks a little relieved. “You don’t have to join if you don’t feel comfortable. If you’re not ready to move on from Kitty. Don’t let Sam pressure you.”

“I’m ready to move on from Kitty,” he answers quickly. Oh. “And I, um.” He rubs the back on his neck exposing his muscular bicep. Arm porn at its finest.

My eyes widen as I realize what he is getting at. “You want to get laid.” The words are out of my mouth before I register what I’ve said.

“I just … you know …” He stumbles over his words.

“Have urges,” I answer for him.

“Don’t you? I mean, you went there the other night to destress, and I’m really stressed right now. I know you’re not interested because, you know … anyway, I respect your boundaries …” he rushes out to say. “Unless you …?” He looks up at me.

“Unless you what?” I question him.

“Unless you want to destress together,” he states. I stare at him shock. “Fuck, see I knew I would mess this up.”

“Is that what this dinner is about? You were trying to butter me up thinking this will change my mind, and I’ll sleep with you?

” I question him, abruptly standing and throwing my napkin on the table.

See, men are liars. My stomach turns, just when I thought about letting my guard down, he proves to me I can’t.

“Issy, no, that wasn’t it at all. I got Sam’s email after I started cooking this meal. Please, don’t leave,” he asks.

“I don’t trust you,” I tell him, which makes his face fall.

“That wasn’t my intention tonight. I was trying to thank you for being there for me during all this.

I know it’s hard. I know I am asking a lot from you.

I see it on your face every day, you look at me like that night at the frat house.

I can’t get rid of the look of your broken face from my memory, it haunts me still.

I just wanted to show my appreciation, but stupid me starts the conversation off about the fucking sex club instead of how was your day?

Or did you hear how well the meeting with The Mavericks went or that Team PSP is trending.

Instead, I’ve been here all afternoon drinking wine.

That is the second bottle I popped, I drank the other one while I was cooking,” my eyes widen at that confession, “because Sam sent me that kink list, and all I could think about was you at that club doing all these things with other men. I shouldn’t feel jealous because I don’t get to be jealous, but I was, and I am, and … ” he confesses.

“You’re jealous?”

“Yes.”

“Why?” I question him.

“Why?” He stares at me as if that is an absurd question.

“That’s what I’m asking, why?”

“Because I haven’t stopped thinking about you for the last fifteen years.

Like I’ve said before, you are the biggest regret in my life.

I wish I wasn’t so weak in trying to fit in with everyone at college because if I hadn’t done what I did, you and I would have gotten married, maybe we would have kids by now.

That’s what haunts me, the life I so desperately want I threw away. ”

“We were kids.”

“I was old enough to know what was right and what was wrong,” he tells me.

“I think you and I need to talk, and I think we need another bottle of wine,” I say, cracking a smile at him.

The tension that was there eases as he rushes into the kitchen, grabs another bottle, and meets me back at the table.

“Can we talk honestly and openly tonight, no judgment, I promise,” I say, holding up my hands.

“I’d like that.”

“I have a wall up when it comes to you,” I tell him.

“Understandably,” he adds.

“Not really. You messed up fifteen years ago. That is a long time to still be angry with someone.”

“I hurt you.”

“And I hurt you by ghosting you all that time,” I say, which surprises him. “I should have come back and dealt with you. Told you all the things I should have and then maybe it wouldn’t have festered inside me for so long.”

“Maybe I should have tried harder,” he adds.

“I was never going to let you,” I confess.