Total pages in book: 94
Estimated words: 93347 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 467(@200wpm)___ 373(@250wpm)___ 311(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 93347 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 467(@200wpm)___ 373(@250wpm)___ 311(@300wpm)
“Buon appetito!”
Seeing how Sabrina and I were standing, they immediately apologized for the intrusion.
Sabrina used the moment to slip out of my grasp and back into her seat.
Clearing my throat, I waved the staff’s apologies off. “It’s fine. Please serve.”
Without another word, they set the plates before us and left.
The creamy richness of the butter blended with the earthy fragrance of sage, wafting through the room. I waited for Sabrina to pick up her fork.
Her beautiful hair cascaded in a thick wave, partially obscuring her face as she sat silently before her plate.
“Contrary to popular belief, men far prefer a woman to have an appetite. Nothing would kill my enjoyment of a meal more than to watch a beautiful woman pick around the edges of the plate, eating nothing.”
She picked up her fork but still did not eat.
I sighed. “Do I need to take you on my lap and feed you, little one?”
I skimmed the metal buckle of my belt before I adjusted my still-hard cock.
Spanking her to get her to obey also had its appeal.
Her eyes widened. “I’m eating!”
She pierced a ravioli with her fork and took a bite.
Satisfied, I finally picked up my fork and ate.
Truly concerned that she’d barely eaten since yesterday, I watched her closely as we ate in silence. The first course was cleared. Oliver brought out fresh wineglasses and poured me a Roagna Barbaresco Crichet Pajé to go with the veal and Sabrina a Quintarelli Bianco Secco to pair with her fish.
When Chef Conti placed the sea bass in front of her, I didn’t miss the quick side-eye she gave me. My mouth quirked at the corner as I raised my glass in a toast.
After we clinked glasses, I leaned in. “At Édouard’s party, you grimaced when presented with the Rillettes de Veau hors d’oeuvres. That’s how I know you don’t like veal.”
She gave me a shy smile. “Okay, fine. I admit I detest veal and would’ve ordered the sea bass anyway.” She gestured with her wineglass. “But that doesn’t give you the right to order for me.”
“In Italy, a man takes care of his woman. Part of that is knowing what she’d most like to eat.”
She toyed with the stem of her wineglass. “But I’m not your woman,” she whispered.
“I believe I’ve made it clear I want to change that.”
She pierced a piece of charred radicchio with her fork but didn’t raise it to her mouth. “You’ve also offered me a job.”
“And?”
“And…you can’t have it all.”
I winked. “All evidence to the contrary.”
She tilted her head and sighed. “You know what I mean. I don’t know how they do things in Italy, but in America, it’s frowned upon to fuck your way to the top.”
I furrowed my brow. “Really? It sounds like a very American thing to do to me.”
“Very funny. That still doesn’t mean I’m okay with it.”
I waved Oliver away as he approached, ensuring our privacy. “So what you’re saying is I can either have you on my staff or in my bed—but not both?”
She crossed her arms and leaned back, clearly pleased with herself. “That’s right. Time to prove if you truly want me for my stylist skills.”
It was adorable how she thought she had me cornered.
There was no difficulty in my choice.
My primary aim was to get her to Italy. I needed a home territory advantage for the things I had planned for her.
“Does this mean you’re considering the position?”
She paused as she lifted her fork to her lips. “It’s not as if you’ve given me much of a choice. My EU work permit requires I have full-time employment. If I stay, I need a job. And since you’re the reason I don’t have one…”
The corner of my mouth lifted as I pushed my plate aside and leaned my forearms on the table. “Sabrina Badalamenti, are you trying to blackmail me?”
CHAPTER 23
SABRINA
My fork slipped from my fingers, striking the plate with a sharp clang that made me wince.
“It’s not blackmail. It’s a negotiation.”
He leaned back, his eyes never leaving mine as he ran a finger along his lower lip, the gesture lazy but laced with calculation. “A negotiation?”
I lifted my chin, emboldened by the challenge in his tone. “Yes. A negotiation.”
His lips curved, though the amusement didn’t reach his eyes. “Haven’t you ever heard, ‘never go against the family’?”
Despite the tension, a laugh escaped me, sharp and humorless. “Seriously? You’re quoting The Godfather to me?”
He tilted his head, a hint of a smirk playing at his mouth. “Don’t you Italian Americans love that movie?”
“Yes, but I don’t.”
“And you call yourself an Italian American?”
The question hit harder than he'd likely intended. My laughter died, replaced by a familiar ache in my chest. I pressed my lips into a thin line as the memories crept in; my mother’s pain, the fractured pieces of a heritage I wasn’t sure I wanted.