LITMIR.BIZ

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better,” she mumbled, eyes closed in case her stupid, inadvisable feelings were beaming from her insides. “I’m awake, if that’s what you mean.”

      He leaped off the couch and hustled her into the kitchen so he could ply her with food, though the thought of putting anything in her mouth made her slightly nauseous.

      Idiot reporters. Those creeps were still upsetting her. She didn’t say anything. There was no point in Matt being upset, too.

      Gulping orange juice, she took a seat at the island and watched Matt move around the kitchen. Poetry in motion. He was never content to shove a couple of pieces of bread in the toaster and call it breakfast. His idea of cooking involved creativity usually reserved for master chefs.

      Today, he was making an egg-white omelet with prosciutto and sun-dried tomatoes, and a half-moon of cantaloupe on the side. He placed the plate in front of her with a flourish and refilled her empty orange juice glass.

      She forked a bite into her mouth and swallowed. It stayed down. “Delicious. As always. You should open a restaurant.”

      “Nah. I just throw some stuff together and pray it turns out.” He waved it off with a pleased smile. “Cooking is fun.”

      “I’m glad one of us thinks so.” Her idea of fun was paying someone else to cook. And clean up the kitchen. Matt had never met a pan unworthy of his olive oil or chicken stock. But he made such fantastic dishes, she really didn’t mind cleaning up.

      “Well, I never used to.” He shrugged. “But I like cooking for you.”

      “Why, because I’m so inventive with how I show my appreciation?” She waggled her brows.

      He laughed. “That is one of the perks. But mostly because you let me. Amber...she was kind of a Gordon Ramsay about her kitchen. I stayed out of it.”

      The omelet took on a whole new significance. “You never cooked for Amber?”

      “Sure, when we were dating. But then, I don’t know. She loved to cook and prided herself on it, so I just didn’t anymore.” He stared out the window at the joint courtyard Palazzo D’Inverno shared with Vincenzo’s house, his gaze faraway and dejected. “I paid through the nose to upgrade the kitchen in this place. For her. I didn’t expect to be the one who would actually use it. Honestly, I probably never would have started cooking again if you hadn’t stayed.”

      That put a lump the size of a grapefruit in her throat. She couldn’t swallow. “Thanks for resurrecting your spatula for me.”

      He shot her a grin. Lately, it didn’t take long at all for him to snap out of his Amber mood, which, if she had her way, he’d get out of permanently.

      “You eat too much takeout. Or you used to. You were practically wasted away to nothing when I got ahold of you. At least this way, I know you’re putting something healthy into your body.”

      “Oh, I see. You cook for me because you’re concerned about my health,” she joked back.

      And then it sank in. It wasn’t a joke. He’d been taking care of her. All along. Maybe subconsciously she’d known that and hence had begun to equate kitchen sounds with a sense of home.

      Matt communicated in subtle, baffling ways she’d never experienced—probably because she never stayed long enough to allow it. What was he trying to tell her with food? That he might have deeper and more lasting feelings for her then she’d thought?

      Wishful thinking at its worst.

      Her eyes burned with the sudden prick of tears.

      The omelet turned to mush in her mouth, and she shoved the plate away. “I didn’t get much sleep last night. Think I’ll go back to bed.”

      “Are you coming down with something?” He skirted the island and cupped her chin with both palms to peer into her eyes, concern practically dripping from his touch.

      “I’m fine. Just tired.”

      Narrowed blue eyes locked onto hers. The deflection didn’t fool him, but he chose not to call her on it.

      Upstairs, she threw herself onto the bed, but it smelled like Matt and that wasn’t conducive to sleep, unless she wanted to have red-hot dreams about the way that man’s mouth felt on her body. She’d rather be experiencing the real thing, but with something far stronger than desire in his gaze.

      She wanted Amber’s place in his heart. It was a really inadvisable thing to long for. But that didn’t make the longing magically disappear.

      Matt had cooked for her. He’d been taking care of her in a way he never had with Amber.

      Maybe he just needed more time to get over her. Maybe being here, in the house he’d bought his wife, prevented Matt from fully healing. Was Evangeline falling down on her job by dragging out their Venice bubble?

      She rolled over and buried her face in the pillow, exhausted but unable to shut off the hamsters turning the wheel in her brain. She’d never been so tired in her life, probably because she’d rendered herself completely inactive. This was the longest she’d stayed in one place.

      Monte Carlo beckoned. The words—the music—flowed again after a long, painful hiatus. If she stayed, all that lovely inspiration might dry up again. The wind had always guided her well enough before.

      But if she moved on, Matt might lose all the progress he’d made. Worse, they’d never find out what might be possible between them. He couldn’t go home yet; that much he’d made clear in more than one conversation.

      What if they moved on together?

      A daring question. But what if it worked?

      If she said the idea of being loved by Matt didn’t thrill her, she’d be lying. A solid, committed man like Matt would never fail her, and in turn, she’d never fail him. They had an unparalleled measure of trust in each other, an understanding. That was the way love was supposed to work. She wanted that, for once in her life.

      But what if she asked and he said no? He’d been drifting in search of a way to get his old life back. Just because he wasn’t ready to go home this minute didn’t mean that goal had changed. Could she really risk Matt’s rejection?

      After mulling it over for a long time, sleep finally claimed her.

      * * *

      Matthew’s slight restless feeling graduated into a full-blown itch to do something productive. He settled for getting out of the house.

      He took his laptop to the rooftop patio and sat in the sun. The Venetian spring was unbelievable, still cool in the mornings, but a warm breeze wafted from the Adriatic Sea, laden with the pungent scent of marine life.

      He wished Evangeline had come up to enjoy it with him, but she was taking an afternoon nap for the third time in a week.

      Something was up, and he suspected she slept to avoid him. Because she was leaving. He could feel her winding down, becoming less talkative.

      Honestly, he was avoiding “the talk,” too. It didn’t feel finished, this thing between them, but only because he didn’t want it to be. For once, the idea of no commitment seemed like a blessing. There would be no broken heart in his future when she took off.

      The organ in question gave a quick, painful tug at the thought of Evangeline leaving, and he shut his eyes until it started beating normally again. No more of that, now.

      Since he had an afternoon to himself, Matthew poked around in his stock accounts, balanced his checkbook and generally killed time with stuff that had no promise of holding his interest.

      He logged onto WFP, curious to see if anything new was going on. Lucas had posted a few sales, but nothing major and certainly not at the same clip as his brother had performed last quarter. First quarter historically saw the best sales as companies began the year with clean budgets.

      The numbers should

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