Lonely. Was that what he was going to say? Was this intelligent, wealthy, physically perfect specimen of man actually lonely?
“Would you like a glass of wine?”
“Yes,” she answered.
“Cabernet goes well with Italian.”
“It does.”
He poured her a glass, and she waited for him before taking her first sip.
“Mmm. This is delicious.”
The veranda spread out over the sand in a decking made entirely of white stone. A circular area designated the fire pit and off to the side, a large in-ground spa swirled with invigorating waters. She’d been here before, sat close to this very spot, but she’d been too immersed in her mission to really take note of the glorious surroundings. Sheer draperies billowed behind them.
“I’m glad you like it.”
What was not to like? If only she could forget who Adam Chase really was.
They sipped wine and enjoyed the calm of the evening settling in. A few scattered beachgoers would appear, walking the sands in the distance, but other than that, they were completely alone.
“Why did you leave Orange County? For college?” he asked.
“No, it was before that.” The wine was fruity and smooth and loosened her tongue, but she couldn’t tell Adam the reason her mother had picked up and left their family home. She’d been careful not to share the closest things about herself to Adam, in case Anna had divulged some of their history to him. While Anna had kept the last name Burkel, Mia had legally changed her name to her mother’s maiden name, D’Angelo, as an adult. Mia was dark haired with green eyes, while her sister had been lighter in complexion and bottle blonde. She wondered if Adam would even remember much about Anna. It had been a one-night fling, and a big mistake, according to Anna. “After my mother and father got divorced, we came to live with my grandmother.”
It was close to the truth.
“I see. Where did you go to school?”
“I graduated from Santa Monica High and put myself through community college. I bet you have multiple degrees.”
“A few,” he admitted and then sipped his drink. His gaze turned to the sea.
“You’re very talented. I’m curious. Why did you decide to become an architect?”
He shrugged, deep in thought. Oh no, not another evasive answer coming on. Was he trying to figure out a way out of her question? “I guess I wanted to build something tangible, something that wouldn’t blow over in the wind.”
“Like the three little pigs. You’re the smart pig, building the house made of bricks.”
His lips twitched again and he lifted his glass to his mouth. “You do have a way of putting things. I’ve never been compared to a pig before.” He sipped his drink.
“A smart pig, don’t forget that. You build structures that are sturdy as well as beautiful.”
He nodded. “Foundation comes first. Then I layer in the beauty.”
She smiled. “I like that.”
He reached for her hand. “And I like you, Mia.” The hand covering hers was strong and gentle.
His eyes were warm, darkening to slate gray and as liquid as the sensations sprinting through her body right now. This wasn’t supposed to happen. This intense, hard-to-ignore feeling she got in the pit of her belly. She couldn’t be attracted to him. It was impossible and would ruin everything.
She slipped her hand from his and rose from her seat. “I think I’d better check on the meal.”
His chair scraped back as he stood. Always the gentleman. “Of course.”
She scurried off, mentally kicking herself. An image of Adam’s disappointed face followed her into the kitchen.
“Damn it.” Adam squeezed his eyes shut. He’d almost blown it with Mia. She was skittish, and he couldn’t blame her. She didn’t know him. It had been his MO not to let people in, and he’d done a good job of avoiding her questions tonight. He’d lost the fine art of conversation years ago, if he’d ever had it. If only he wasn’t so darn smitten with her. Smitten? Now that was a corny word. Hell, he was attracted to her, big-time. She was a breath of fresh air in his stale life.
He entered the kitchen holding two wineglasses he’d refilled and found her by the oven, wearing her little blue apron again. His throat tightened at the domestic scene. How long had it been since a woman cooked him a meal? Well, aside from Mary. A long, he couldn’t remember how long, time. “Me again.” He set down her wineglass. “What can I do?”
“How are you at making a salad?”
“I can manage that.”
She stirred the sauce as he opened the refrigerator and grabbed a big wooden bowl covered with plastic wrap. He set it in front of her.
“How’s this?”
“Looks beautiful.” She smirked. “You work fast.”
“Thank Mary. She anticipates everything.” He opened a drawer and revealed a loaf of fresh crusty Italian bread. “Yep, even bread.”
Mia smiled. “Thank you, Mary. The sauce is almost ready. I brought homemade tagliatelle. But I can’t take credit for making it. There’s no way I could duplicate my gram’s recipe. She’s the expert. She made it.”
Several sheets of thin pasta were laid out on a chopping block. Mia rolled a sheet all the way up until it was one rather long log and then she cut inch wide strips and then narrower strips all the way down the line. “Tagliatelle doesn’t have to be perfect. That’s the beauty in the recipe. Once you’ve made the pasta, cutting it is a breeze.” She unrolled two at different lengths and widths and showed it to him. “See?”
She added a sprinkling of salt to a boiling pot. “Here you go. Want to put these in as I cut?”
“I think you can double as a chef, Mia D’Angelo.” They worked together, her cutting, him adding the pasta to the bubbling water.
“That’s nice of you to say. But judge me in two minutes, when it’s done.”
“If it tastes anything like it smells...” The scent of garlic and herbs and the meaty sauce spiked his appetite. The homey aroma brought good memories of sitting down to a meal with his mom and dad, brother and sister. “It’ll be delicious.”
“I hope so.”
He helped Mia serve up the dish, and they sat down outside again. It was dark now; the moonlight over the ocean illuminated the sky. Mary had placed domed votive candles on the table, and he lit them. He couldn’t remember having a more relaxed evening. Mia didn’t seem to want anything from him. She was the real deal, a woman he wouldn’t have even met, if she hadn’t injured herself practically on his doorstep. She was curious, but she wasn’t overbearing. He liked that she made him laugh.
Steam billowed from the pasta on his plate and he hunkered down and forked it into his mouth before his stomach started grumbling. The Bolognese sauce was the best he’d ever tasted, and the pasta was so tender, it slid down his throat. The dish was sweet and savory at the same time, just the right amount of...everything. “Wow,” he said. “It’s pretty damn good.”
She grinned. “Good? Your plate is almost empty.”
“All right. It’s fantastic. I’m going in for second helpings. If that’s okay with you?”