I shake my head. “Nope. I want you to sit here and keep me company.” I nod toward one of the stools on the other side of the kitchen island, and she smiles and slides her sweet ass onto it. I go to the wine cellar and retrieve the bottle I was thinking about, uncork it, and then pour a glass for each of us.
“Thank you,” she murmurs when I hand her glass to her. I watch as she takes her time, swirling, sniffing, and then finally tasting, letting the wine sit on her tongue for a moment so she can get the full flavor of it.
And it hits me then: she fits into my world just fine.
No. No, no, no. I don’t do that kind of thing. Freedom. Independence. No.
Samantha smiles at me. “Wow.”
I grin. “That pretty much sums it up.”
I go to work chopping onions and garlic, and she sits, watching, occasionally sipping her wine.
“You said before that your father’s construction business wasn’t your ‘thing,’” she says. “Is this your thing? Cooking?”
I glance up at her and shake my head. “No. This is relaxing and something I don’t do often enough.”
She nods, but she doesn’t press me for more details. To my surprise, I keep talking.
“My father builds luxury high rises for rich people. People who already have it all but want more. Bigger. Better.” I grab an eggplant and start peeling it. “The thing is, with a background and skills in construction, you can actually change the world. At least for some people.”
She’s studying me. “Not just for rich people, then?” she asks with a smile.
I shake my head. “What I want to do…what I’ll be able to do, once I finish this current project for my father, is help build homes and other facilities for at-need communities in Third World countries. Places most of the world seems to have forgotten.” I take a breath. This isn’t something I talk about a lot. It’s something I do. I’m not my father. I don’t believe in talking myself up to make myself look important. “It just doesn’t seem fair. All this luxury here, and not even basic shelter in other places.”
She’s watching me, her big dark eyes seeming to see far too much, as always.
“How did you get started on that path?” she finally asks.
I think for a minute while I’m chopping. “I traveled a lot as a kid. But we always went to the nicer places. The places they cover in travel magazines and shows. When I was in college, I became friends with a guy who was from a very, very poor area in western Africa. He knew I was born with a silver spoon in my mouth, and I think he took it as his own personal mission to show me just how different other people live. And I’ll be grateful for that for the rest of my life.”
I start arranging the vegetables in layers in the baking dish, and I keep talking. “One spring break, we went to his village. He wanted to see his family and friends, of course, and he wanted me to see the world not as the tourism boards want us to see it, but as it really is. I met some of the kindest, most generous people in the world on that trip, and I saw how they went without even the most basic comforts. And here I am, with the resources and talents to help…it would be ridiculous not to.”
I chance a glance up at her, and she’s watching me intently.
“So you want to build for them?”
“That’s part of the overall plan. I’m laying the foundation for a charity that would be able to do even more than I could myself. I mean, I’m going to put every penny I can behind it per
sonally, but I’ll eventually be tapped out.” I flash her a grin. “My father likes to remind me that this is his money, not mine. I earn a salary from the company, and I guess I’ll get an inheritance someday, but I want to do this now, not when I’m fifty.”
***
Samantha
I can’t stop staring at him. Dante has a magnetic personality, even when he’s saying nothing at all. But seeing him like this, so enthusiastic, so animated… I just felt myself fall a little deeper in love with him.
Damn it.
As amazing as he is when we’re out at an event or even in bed together, he’s even more amazing now, relaxed and talking like this. I watch as he finishes layering the ratatouille, then pops it into the oven.
“I’m not much of a baker, which is why I ended up grabbing the madeleines for dessert,” he says, and I smile.
“I’m not, either. My mom was a heck of a baker, though,” I say, and he nods.
“Mine was, too.”
“Was?”