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“No blindfold, then.”
As soon as we drive into the parking garage, Isabella gasps softly, turning to me.
“No way,” she says under her breath.
“You know this would be so much better if I could blindfold you and lead you in there,” I point out.
She grins. “What did you do, Graham?”
We’re currently in the parking garage of one of the most exclusive bakeries in New York. The chef is an Italian man, Vinetto Bocelli. Bocelli’s encompasses a couple of restaurants, bakeries, and cafés all around the city. And we’re currently at its main branch, the most exclusive one. It’s nearly impossible to get a reservation here; it’s booked weeks in advance.
I got one in two days.
“We’re going to meet the man in charge, himself. I remember you telling me a couple of weeks ago that you wished you had recipes for Italian pastries. And that anytime you try making something, you always mess it up.”
“Yeah…” she says quietly, eyes fixed on my face.
“Well, it took a lot of convincing and negotiation. But I talked to Vinetto Bocelli?—”
Isabella’s eyes widen. “You talked to him? How? He’s a known recluse. Not a lot of people get to meet him, and it’s even harder to get to eat desserts specifically prepared by him.”
“Well, I talked to him,” I continue, “and we came to an agreement.”
“What did you do, Graham?” she asks again, her voice slightly breathless.
“Vinetto agreed to sell some of his recipes. I think he mentioned cannolis, panforte, and tiramisu. Also something called bombolone,” I say, unsure if I’m pronouncing that right.
“Oh my god,” Isabella whispers. “How were you even able to do that?”
“You have to sign a contract. The terms state that you can’t give the recipes to anyone and you can’t sell or make any profits from any of the desserts. It’s only for your personal household consumption. He had his lawyers draw up the contract yesterday. I had a lawyer look it over and it’s pretty ironclad.”
I also had to pay a significant amount of money before Vinetto even considered my proposal. But she doesn’t need to know that.
Isabella’s staring at me like she’s seeing me for the first time. I’m pretty sure she’s speechless. The world narrows to this very moment and everything else seems to fall away. Her blue eyes sparkle in a way that makes my heart hurt.
“What am I supposed to say to all this?” she asks, a note of vulnerability in her voice I’ve never heard before.
I grin. “I did good, didn’t I, Sunshine? My first plan was to throw you a party, hire strippers, all that razzle-dazzle.”
“Razzle-dazzle,” she repeats dryly. “I can’t think of anything worse than a strippers and party.”
“Yeah. I figured you’d appreciate something like this more. A quiet night together eating the best desserts in the city.”
“Thank you, Graham,” she breathes, offering me a genuine smile.
“You’re welcome. Now come on, we’d better not keep Vinetto waiting. He gets cranky.”
We step out of the car and as soon as I’m standing in front of her, Isabella throws her arms around me. I breathe in her scent, wrapping my arms around her waist.
“No one’s ever done something so thoughtful for me before,” Isabella says against my chest. “It’s really sweet of you, Gray.”
“You know me, Sunshine. I’m practically a walking cavity.”
She slaps my chest before leaning away. I take her hand, intertwining our fingers. Her hand fits in mine perfectly.
“Let’s go, birthday girl.”
We spend the next two hours eating the best desserts and speaking to Vinetto, who Isabella refers to as a pastry god. By the time we leave, I’m completely full. Isabella suggests we take a walk to let it all the food settle and I’m inclined to agree.
