They entered a wide, spacious living area with a vaulted ceiling. Immediately in front of them was a sleek, dark stained table. To the left was a modern white kitchen with dark marble countertops. Beyond she could see comfortable-looking brown leather couches and French windows that opened onto a deck.
“I promise not to look,” Lucy said.
She noted the two place settings at the table. Everything looked perfect, from the red roses in a sleek vase to the snowy white linen napkins folded neatly across each side plate. She frowned.
Dom moved behind the island counter and reached for a handful of flour. She watched as he dusted the counter prior to rolling out the dough.
She smiled uncertainly when he glanced up at her.
“You want to take your coat off? I should have asked before I got flour on my hands again. Just throw it on the couch.”
She took advantage of his suggestion to try to pull herself together, but nothing could stop the way her brain was suddenly whirring away.
He’d gone to a lot of trouble for a simple business meeting. The flowers, the beautifully set table. Unless she was hugely mistaken, he’d even ironed the napkins. And he was making pasta by hand for her.
Was it just her, or was Dom pulling out all the stops for what was supposed to be a simple working lunch, their first as business partners?
She studied him carefully as she crossed to the kitchen. His hair was slightly damp, as though he’d just had a shower. But that could mean anything. Maybe he’d slept in, maybe he’d been to the gym. Maybe he’d even had someone stay the night and they’d whiled away a weekend morning in bed together before he’d had to get ready for this meeting.
She frowned as she registered her distinct unease at the thought of Dom with another woman.
“You want to open the wine?” he asked as he began to roll out thin ropes of dough with his fingertips. He indicated a bottle of red wine.
“um, sure. Where can I find the bottle opener?”
“Top drawer, on the left,” he said.
She found the opener easily and began twisting it into the cork.
“Haven’t seen one of these for a while,” she said.
Dom frowned. “I thought pregnant women were allowed to have the occasional glass of wine these days. My sisters drank through their pregnancies.”
Lucy laughed. “I meant the cork. It’s the real deal, not plastic. And definitely not a screw cap.”
“Oh, right. I brought some bottles of Chianti back from Italy. They won’t have anything to do with screw caps over there.”
She collected the glasses from the table and poured the wine, then placed his within reach on the counter.
“Thanks.” The smile he gave her was warm. Then his gaze dropped below her face.
He did not just do an eye-drop on me, she told herself sternly, even though it had looked distinctly like he was checking out her breasts. He’s probably worried that my turtleneck won’t withstand the pressure of being stretched over my bump and that the whole thing will suddenly rip in two like the Hindenburg.
Even though she was limiting herself to just one small glass of wine, she took a healthy sip and welcomed the distracting warmth as it slid down her throat. When she dared look at Dom again he was cutting the dough into one-inch sections.
See? He’s not interested in your boobs. You’ve been spending too much time with your delusional sister.
“Do you cook often?” she asked.
She did a mental eye roll at the question. She might as well have asked about the weather. She’d had several meetings with him since he’d proposed their partnership and yet each time she seemed to feel less comfortable, not more so. Now she was trotting out the kind of polite, stiff chitchat she usually saved for new acquaintances.
“When I can. I try to make some meals on the weekend for during the week. It’s easy to get lazy when I’m home late from the market,” he said.
He began marking the gnocchi with a fork, expertly rolling each piece off the tines and onto a floured plate.
“You’ve done this before,” Lucy noted. “Don’t tell anyone, but I buy mine from the supermarket.”
He tsk-tsked and shook his head.
“Lucia, Lucia. Don’t you know that food is the way to a man’s heart?” he said in a flawless impersonation of any number of elderly Italian women she knew.
“Damn. That was where I went wrong,” she said, snapping her fingers in mock chagrin.
Dom winced.
“Sorry,” he said. His gaze dropped to her belly. “I didn’t think.”
She shrugged. “It’s okay. It wasn’t my store-bought gnocchi that scared Marcus away. He fell for his yoga instructor.”
“Yoga instructor. That’s a new one. I thought it was usually the secretary.”
“Marcus is a photographer, so he had to improvise. But he’s making out just fine. Apparently what she lacks in the dictation department she makes up for in flexibility,” Lucy said. Then she flushed as she realized how jealous and bitchy she sounded.
The corners of Dom’s eyes crinkled as he grinned at her.
“Saucer of milk, table two,” he said.
She pulled a face. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to say that.”
“Yeah, you did. It’s okay. You’re supposed to be pissed off. The only people who are cool with being betrayed are people I don’t want to know.”
He took the gnocchi over to the stove and slid them into a pan of boiling water. His arms flexed as he brushed the last pieces from the plate. He hadn’t shaved today, she noted, and his jaw was dark with stubble, enhancing his rumpled, casual appeal.
Bare feet and stubble ought to be banned, she thought. I’d have to turn the hose on Rosie if she was here.
Dom turned his head and caught her staring. A slow smile spread across his mouth. She tore her gaze away and frowned down into her drink. Her heart was suddenly pounding, and she didn’t know what to do with her hands.
“So, um, what did your father say about us becoming partners?” she asked abruptly, desperate for distraction.
“I haven’t told him. It’s none of his business what I do with my investments,” Dom said.
“Wow. You guys must have had one hell of an argument.”
His mouth quirked wryly. “You could say that.”
He didn’t offer any more information, and she wasn’t about to push. They were business colleagues, not friends. On the personal front, they owed each other nothing.
“So, Lucy, the big question—do you like it hot?” he asked.
She blinked. “um, sorry?”
He laughed. “Maybe I should rephrase that. Can you eat chilies without getting heartburn?”
“Oh. So far, so good. But I’m definitely more on the coward’s side of the chili divide than the courageous.”
“Okay, why don’t you come over here and try the sauce, let me know if I’ve gone too crazy with anything.” He gestured for her to join him at the stove.
She came to a halt a few feet away, and he dipped a wooden spoon into a saucepan.
“Come a little closer so I don’t spill.”
She