Page 145 of Falling for the Grumpy Bad Boy

EPILOGUE

CLEMENTINE

The scent of garlic and fresh herbs filled Rhett’s apartment as I sipped wine and watched him cook. Snow fell steadily outside, making the city lights twinkle like scattered diamonds. Frank Sinatra’s voice crooned “I’ll Be Home for Christmas” from the sound system. I felt like I’d stepped into a dream.

But it was my life. My Christmas Eve. My man standing at the stove, sleeves rolled up, completely focused on preparing what he told me was his mother’s traditional Italian Christmas Eve dinner.

My parents understood when I told them I wanted to spend Christmas Eve with Rhett. We were making our own traditions. I promised to be home tomorrow for our family Christmas while Rhett went to his mom’s house.

Next year, I had a feeling that would be different, but for now, I liked that we were easing into things.

“You know you don’t have to watch me like I’m going to burn the place down,” Rhett said without turning around, but I could hear the smile in his voice.

“I’m not watching you cook,” I lied, taking a sip of the wine. “I’m watching you period. There’s a difference.”

He glanced over his shoulder, those green eyes dancing with amusement. “Is that right?”

“Absolutely. You’re very nice to look at, Rhett Voss. And you know cooking turns me on.”

He chuckled. “So I’ve heard. Speaking of, you should probably sanitize that island.”

I blushed. He had me spread out on the island an hour ago. Naked. Moaning.

I quickly grabbed the cleaning solution and spritzed it over the marble surface. The man was insatiable. Or maybe I was. Together, it seemed like neither of us could get enough of one another.

“I’ll set the table,” I offered after cleaning.

I opened one cupboard and then another. The man had beautiful cookware and absolutely nothing else that suggested he knew how to entertain. I found cloth napkins still in their packaging and what appeared to be his only set of plates.

I set the table and lit a couple of candles. With the soft candlelight flickering and the snow falling outside those massive windows, it transformed into something magical.

I stepped back to admire my handiwork just as Rhett emerged from the kitchen carrying the first of what seemed like an endless parade of dishes. The aromas hit me immediately, garlic, white wine, fresh herbs, and the briny scent of the sea.

“This smells incredible,” I said, watching him arrange plates.

“Wait until you taste it,” he said, disappearing back into the kitchen.

By the time he finished bringing everything out, the table looked like something from a food magazine. Linguine with clam sauce that glistened with olive oil and fresh parsley. Stuffed calamari that looked almost too beautiful to eat. Shrimp scampi swimming in butter and garlic. And four other dishes whose Italian names I couldn’t pronounce but that made my mouth water just looking at them.

“The Feast of the Seven Fishes,” he announced, settling into the chair across from me. “My mother’s Christmas Eve tradition.”

I filled our wine glasses and we both sat down.

“This is perfect,” I said, twirling pasta around my fork. “I feel like I’m in another world.”

“You’re not,” Rhett said. “You’re in your world. Our world.”

After dinner, we moved to the living room, where a massive Christmas tree dominated one corner, decorated with white lights and elegant gold ornaments. A fire crackled in the fireplace, begging for us to cuddle in front of it.

I curled up against Rhett on the sofa, my head on his shoulder, watching the flames dance. “This is my favorite night of the year,” I murmured.

“Christmas Eve?”

“Mm-hmm. There’s something magical about it, you know? All that anticipation, all that possibility. Like anything could happen.”

His arm tightened around me. “What do you want to happen?”

I tilted my head to look at him. “This. Just this. You and me and nowhere else we have to be.”