Evermore - Alyson Noel [58]
So after a full day of lounging outside by the pool, I’m just about to order another pizza when Damen grabs the phone out of my hand and says, “I thought I’d make dinner.”
“You can cook?” I ask, though I don’t know why I’m surprised, because the truth is, I’ve yet to find anything he can’t do.
“I’ll let you be the judge of that.” He smiles.
“Do you need help?” I offer, even though my kitchen skills are severely limited to boiling water and adding milk to cereal.
But he just shakes his head and heads for the stove, so I go upstairs to shower and change, and when he calls me down for dinner, I’m amazed to find the dining room table dressed with Sabine’s finest china, linens, candles, and a large crystal vase filled with dozens of—big surprise—red tulips.
“Mademoiselle.” He smiles and pulls out my chair, his French accent lilting and perfect.
“I can’t believe you did this.” I gaze at the heaping platters lined up before me, so piled with food I wonder if we’re expecting guests.
“It’s all for you.” He smiles, answering the question I hadn’t yet asked.
“Just me? Aren’t you going to have any?” I watch as he fills my plate with perfectly prepared vegetables, finely grilled meats, and a sauce so rich and complex I don’t even know what it is.
“Of course.” He smiles. “But mostly I made it for you. A girl can’t live on pizza alone, you know.”
“You’d be surprised.” I laugh, cutting into a juicy piece of grilled meat.
While we eat, I ask questions. Taking advantage of the fact that he’s barely touching his food by asking all of the things I’ve been dying to know but always seem to forget the moment he looks in my eyes. Things about his family, his childhood, the constant moves, the emancipation—partly because I’m curious, but mostly because it feels weird to be in a relationship with someone I know so little about. And the more we talk, the more surprised I am by how much we share in common. For one thing, both of us are orphaned, though he at a much younger age. And even though he’s a little sketchy on the details, it’s not like I volunteer to talk about my situation either, so I don’t really push it.
“So where’d you like best?” I ask, having just cleaned my plate of every last morsel and feeling the beginnings of a nice languid fullness.
“Right here.” He smiles, having barely eaten a thing but making a pretty good show of moving his food all around.
I squinch my eyes, not quite believing it. I mean, sure, Orange County’s nice, but it can’t possibly compare to all of those exciting European cities, can it?
“Seriously. I’m very happy here.” He nods, looking right at me.
“And you weren’t happy in Rome, Paris, New Delhi, or New York?”
He shrugs, his eyes suddenly tinged with sadness as they drift away from mine and he takes a sip of his strange red drink.
“And what exactly is that?” I ask, peering at the bottle.
“You mean this?” he smiles, holding it up for me to see. “Secret family recipe.” He swirls the contents around, and I watch as the color glows and sparks as it runs up the sides and splashes back down. Looking like a cross between lightning, wine, and blood mixed with the tiniest hint of diamond dust.
“Can I try it?” I ask, not entirely sure that I want to, but still curious.
He shakes his head. “You won’t like it. Tastes just like medicine. But that’s probably because it is medicine.”
My stomach sinks as I gape at him, imagining a whole host of incurable diseases, horrible afflictions, grave ailments—I knew he was too good to be true.
But he just shakes his head and laughs as he reaches for my hand. “No worries. I just get a little low on energy sometimes. And this helps.”
“Where do you get it?” I squint, searching for a label, an imprint, some kind of mark, but the bottle is clear, smooth, and appears almost seamless.
He smiles. “I told you, secret family