Page 91 of The Forbidden Billionaire
“Yeah, it is.” I rest a hand on her ankle. Her skin is smooth and silky.
Her eyes meet mine for a moment. We observe each other quietly, half-listening to the romcom that’s now playing on Netflix.
“Do you visit your father and brother in Australia much?” she asks.
“Once a year, maybe.”
“What was your childhood like, until your parents parted, I mean?”
I talk for a while about growing up in Melbourne, a childhood spent playing rugby and cricket and football with my brothers. I ask her about hers, and she tells me about living in Cambridge, riding horses and milking cows and playing with the sheepdogs.
She’s easy to talk to, and the sun sinks lower in the sky while we talk, and make coffee, and half watch another movie, and talk some more. It’s with some surprise when I check my watch and discover it’s close to six p.m.
“Look at that sky,” she says, getting up and going over to the window. The clouds are thick and gray, and rain is coming in, sweeping across the sea. “I hope all the fishing boats are safely home.”
I look down at her. Strands of her red hair have strayed from her messy bun and curl around her face. Despite using lotion, she’s caught the sun a little, and her cheeks are flushed an attractive pink. She’s so beautiful, it makes me ache.
I turn away and go through to the kitchen. “What would you like for dinner this evening?”
“I think we should order something in.”
“Saves cooking.”
We get out the room service menu and Aurelia says she’s in the mood for lasagna, so we order two portions with focaccia bread, and she asks for Tiramisu to follow. Her eyes meet mine as I place the order, her eyes full of mischief before she turns away.
I put down the receiver, conscious of my pulse picking up. It feels as if something is brewing between us, like the weather outside. Or am I imagining it? I should keep our relationship professional… but it’s an old argument, and I’m getting tired of it. She’s right; we can’t stay here forever. I don’t just mean onEvermore Island; I mean this state of affairs can’t continue. It feels as if we’re in stasis, suspended in time, and that’s not a sustainable situation.
Aurelia lays out the place settings and cutlery, then says, “I’d like a glass of wine. Will you share a bottle with me?”
“I’ll have one glass,” I concede, thinking I can allow myself that much. It’s been a tough few weeks, and it would be nice to relax. Plus it’s no fun for her drinking alone.
“Red or white?” she asks. We choose a New Zealand merlot, and she pours us both a glass.
As Gabriel promised, our meal turns up within thirty minutes. It’s beautifully presented and still piping hot—two portions of lasagna with a separate green salad, a round loaf of focaccia bread topped with rosemary and salt crystals, and a huge dish of Tiramisu.
“Oh,” she says when I close the door, “I didn’t realize it would be to share.”
“What do you mean? This is just yours. He’s bringing mine separately.” I place the dessert in the fridge for now.
She giggles and takes her seat. “Oh my God, this smells amazing.”
I sit opposite her and take a piece of the bread. “It’s still warm.”
We both have a bite and sigh. Then we dig into the lasagna, which is full of alternate layers of rich mince and creamy bechamel sauce, soft pasta, and tasty cheese.
We chat while we eat, while outside, the first drops of rain begin to fall. The clouds over the sea are thick and gray now, and before long, the wind is sweeping the rain against the window and puddles are forming on the deck.
We sip our wine, eat the lasagna, and talk about our favorite foods, and then when we’re done, Aurelia talks me into having a second glass of wine. I give in, too weak to continueprotesting. The doors are locked and the weather is foul, and it feels as if we’re living in our own private world here, miles from the danger back in Auckland.
Deciding to leave the Tiramisu for a bit, we go over to the sofa, sit beside each other, and put a movie on in the background, but keep the sound down low while we talk. The rain is almost drowning it out anyway, lashing against the windows now with thick, sub-tropical drops.
We talk for a while about this and that, like ice skaters circling in the rink, occasionally touching. We flirt lightly, teasing each other the way we both enjoy. It’s warm in the room, and I feel cozy and content.
Aurelia takes her hair down from its bun and lets it tumble around her shoulders in red curls. She runs her fingers through it while she talks, loosening the strands, and I rest an arm on the back of the sofa and lean my head on my hand as I watch her, thinking how beautiful she is.
She does the same, mirroring my position, and we study each other for a while. We haven’t turned on the lights, and outside, the gray clouds are tinged with a russet red, while inside the light from the TV plays on our skin.
“Tell me about Penny,” Aurelia says.
