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Isabella glances up at me in shock. “You went to Oxford?”
“You don’t have to look so surprised,” I say with an eye roll.
“Come on, you know it’s surprising. Why didn’t you go to choose a college in this country? You could have gone to Harvard or Yale. I’m sure you’d have gotten in, smarty pants.”
I hesitate before replying, feeling something clench in my gut.
“My brother was already in Harvard. It was my father’s alma mater so naturally he wanted all his kids to go. Oxford was my way of rebelling.”
Isabella arches an eyebrow. “In what world is going to Oxford a way of rebelling?”
“Mine. Plus, at that time, I wanted nothing more than to be away from my family,” I tell her, my jaw clenched.
Isabella seems to be able to tell it’s a sore subject because she drops it.
“Alright. You were able to get into one of the most prestigious schools in the world, so I’m sure you can manage some onions and vegetables. Just chop them up, okay?”
I nod and she moves away so I can start. Soon enough, I’m chopping away. I can’t believe I’m willingly doing this. I really don’t enjoy cooking. It feels like a chore.
“We should put some music on,” I tell her. “Could you go grab the remote in the living room? It controls the in-built speakers, too.”
She nods and goes to do so. When she returns, I connect my phone to the speakers. As soon as the first song comes on, Isabella starts to laugh.
“Oh my god, is that Taylor Swift?” she asks.
“Yes,” I mutter. “Got a problem with it?”
She stops laughing and shakes her head. “Not at all. It’s adorable. I’ve not met many grown men that listen to Taylor Swift. What else have you got in that playlist? Ariana Grande? K-pop?”
I roll my eyes. “Music has no age or gender restrictions, darling, in case you weren’t aware.”
She’s still highly amused. “I know. It’s just… you have the same music taste as my eleven-year-old cugina.”
As soon as she finishes the statement, her eyes widen.
“Cugina, huh?” I smirk.
She groans. “That just slipped out.”
“You speak Italian.”
Isabella sighs in resignation. “Yes, I speak Italian.”
“Good to know,” I tell her. “So, is this the same cousin you mentioned earlier?”
“No, that was Matthew. The one I’m talking about was Maria. They’re twins.”
“And then there’s another one that’s apparently powerful enough to know if you end up in a police station here in Denver, despite being in New York,” I say meaningfully.
“He might not find out. But it’s always a possibility given how connected he is,” she clarifies.
“And you’re not going to tell me who he is?”
She shakes her head. “Nope.”
I’m going to die of curiosity.
“Okay. So you have how many cousins?” I ask. “You can answer that, right?”
