Page 34 of Dante

Having Dante cross-examining me like this is unnerving, but I force a teasing smile.

“Hear me out. Do you and your brothers remember a brand of pasta called Chef Boyardee?” I ask.

“Luca saw television commercials for it when he was a kid and demanded that our mother buy it,” Dante says, looking at his youngest brother. “Of course she’d never consider it.”

“Our mother made the best pasta on the planet,” Lorenzo explains to me.

“Right. But that’s not the point …” I begin.

Dante cuts me off.

“We’re not in the restaurant business,” he says flatly, taking in me and his brothers in one sweeping glance.

“We’re in the money-making business. I’m willing to consider this restaurant endeavor of yours. But I’m only interested in its profit potential. Lorenzo, Luca, run the numbers, then send me your report.”

“But Dante …” I begin.

My husband cuts me off again as he meets my eyes. “I said I’d think about it.”

The conversation turns to the museum exhibition once again. But I tune out their words as the concept of the restaurant interior becomes more vivid in my mind.

I had never considered going commercial with my artistic endeavors, but why not?

My New York adventure now glitters with exciting possibilities. Yet if only Dante would love me the way I love him, everything would be perfect.

It will happen I tell myself. It’s just a matter of time.

CHAPTER 12

GINA

The next morning finds me sitting at the breakfast island in the kitchen.

I’m enjoying the fresh box of Cap’n Crunch cereal while perusing the Academy of Visual Arts website when I hear footsteps.

I look up. “Dante!”

He stands before me in black silk pajama bottoms slung low on his hips. My eyes gravitate to the V-cut of his abs and the goodies that lie below.

“Good morning,” I say, my gaze traveling over the muscled perfection of his chest and arms.

His cedar cologne, with its musky undertone, arouses me all over again. And reminds me of our activities late last night.

He stands looking at me a long moment. Whether it’s to prolong my pleasure in admiring his ripped torso or not, I have no idea.

“Yes. Good morning. What’s that you’re reading so intently?”

“Oh. Just the admission requirements for the Academy of Visual Arts,” I say, feeling caught. I had wanted to prepare a more formal request, but maybe this is the best way.

“Why is that?”

I hesitate. “You know I graduated from UC Irvine.”

“Yes. And?”

“Well, now that I’m in Manhattan, I was thinking of graduate school.”

“Graduate school? For what reason?”