Page 207 of Claimed At First Sight

Worse, I have no comeback. It’s as though my brain has become scrambled in his presence again, leaving me incapable of producing even one cutting response.

I don’t like this.

Needing somewhere else to look, I walk to the windows.

The sky has cleared, and the city below is covered in a pristine layer of white, the river cutting through it like a dark ribbon. It would be beautiful if the streets didn’t look so distant and the surrounding skyscrapers weren’t ending somewhere beneath my feet.

My head spins as I become aware of the height all over again. The tower may have stopped swaying, but I still want solid ground under me and no view of rooftops below.

“How much longer are we stranded here? Are the roads clear enough for us to get back to Aldo’s?”

“So keen to leave me?” he teases.

Yes.

“I’m eager to see Mamma after her trip.”

He holds my gaze for another moment before reaching for his espresso again, apparently satisfied that he has unsettled me enough for one morning.

“We’ll leave after we’ve had something to eat,” he says. “Now, what would you like for breakfast, sweetheart?”

Sweetheart?

My stomach performs a small, erratic flip, but I pretend not to notice. I’m getting damn good at ignoring the ways Maximo throws me off balance.

I tilt my head, about to lean against the window, but think better of it.

“You can cook?”

He chuckles, the low, rumbling sound carrying far too much enjoyment.

“I’m sure I could if I put my mind to it, but I was thinking of ordering from downstairs.”

“Ah, that makes much more sense.” I eye him skeptically. “I couldn’t imagine you behind a stove.”

“To be honest, neither can I.” His mouth twitches.

He turns to the coffee machine and presses a few buttons. Seconds later, the rich aroma of freshly brewed espresso drifts through the kitchen.

“Good. That would have been unsettling.”

Gladly turning my back on the windows and the dizzying view beyond them, I move to his side. He hands me the small cup, allowing our fingers to brush around the warm porcelain.

He did that on purpose, didn’t he?

“Do you cook?” Maximo asks.

I shake my head. “No, my father made sure of that.”

I take a sip of espresso and sigh happily.

“Cooking was beneath an Accardi. He had a massive aversion to us performing anything he considered a menial commoner’s task.

“When Isa was younger, she baked his favorite dessert for his birthday. I remember how horrified he looked when she proudly told him she’d made it herself. Most parents would have been touched. Our father acted as though she’d confessed to scrubbing floors.”

I shake my head at the memory. I was still little, but it left a lasting impression.

“He was always determined to marry us off to men who could afford full-time household staff. Why teach your daughters life skills when someone else can do everything for them?”