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“Ah, yes,” he answers, and I face him to catch sight of his distant smile, his gaze unfocused. “One of the only things I got from my mother.”
This is the first mention of anything deeply personal from the once Italian man before me and I bask in the intimacy of it. But I know what it’s like to have a complicated history with family so I don’t ask anything further, opting instead to glance at the set table a few feet away.
“You mentioned food…” I start, and he nods, walking toward one of the chairs.
“Yes, yes. Come, sit, eat.”
When I approach, he rushes to the other side and pulls my chair out. I glance down at the table and grin at the lasagna, salad, and bread that waits for us.
“You made this?” My words are an octave higher than I anticipated, but Abraham just chuckles as I sit.
“I told you I’m Italian. Food is my love language.”
“And what is it you’re trying to say?” I peer up from where I’m seated, unable to fight the smile on my face.
“Let the food do the talking,Stellina.”
I almost ask him what that word means but he’s pouring me a glass of chianti and I’m so swept up in the effort this must have taken.
When he’s settled in his seat and we’ve started our salads, I finally ask the question I’ve been thinking of for weeks.
“What made you change your mind?”
“What do you mean?” He sets his fork down and leans forward, placing his chin on his joined hands, his elbows propped up on the table.
“You can continue eating,” I reassure him, continuing to stab at my salad, unable to sustain direct eye contact.
“Are you uncomfortable with my undivided attention?”
This makes me glance up at him before returning my focus to my food.
“What made you decide to stop being an asshole to me?” I ask instead of answering his question. I hate lying, but I refuse to share just how much he gets to me.
Another shrug from him before he answers, placing his palms on the table.
“I could either make both of our lives hell, remove you from my class, or see if the attraction I felt that night was real.”
“You’ve been attracted to others,” I remind him before taking a bite of my salad.
“Ah, the incident in my office,” he nods, watching the fork slide from between my lips. “There will always be young women with Hollywood dreams willing to fuck me for a chance. Even when I inform them that I don’t cast with my cock.”
“Don’t sound so crass.” I don’t like how it makes me feel.
“If you’d like me to apologize for being a pig, I will,” he offers, holding his hands out. Always speaking with his hands.
“Only if it means you won’t act like a pig ever again,” I muse aloud.
“If it keeps you here, I promise.”
He holds up his hands to his chest, and I grin, unable to maintain my serious expression.
“I can’t hate you for the person you were before me.”
“Can I like you for the person you were before me? Because the woman who chose to go to the movies, even though her date stood her up…I want to like that woman. I want to know her very much.”
This powerful man, who’s worked with some of the most beautiful women in the world, who’s shared space withgorgeous models and has been connected to some of the most influential people in the world…he cooked me dinner.
He asks me questions and stares at me like he doesn’t want to miss a word I say. And maybe this is love-bombing, and he just wants to fuck me. Maybe this means nothing to him, but I tuck the experience somewhere deep inside of me.
