7. Graham

Two hours after our argument, I'm heading downstairs because I'm hungry. Not to check on Isabella. Since I'm already down here, though, I decide to see what she's doing. When I take a peek into the living room, she's not there.

I find her in the kitchen, wearing an apron and holding some vegetables in her hand. I watch as she drops them on the counter. I lean against the doorway and cross my arms over my chest.

"What are you doing?" I ask.

She jumps, clutching her chest. "For the love of God, Graham!" she snaps.

"I thought you said you weren't going to cook," I state.

"I wasn't going to," she mutters. "But I'm bored."

Like I predicted, the storm took out the cellphone towers about an hour ago. Which is a big inconvenience. I'm just hoping it passes quickly.

Isabella points the knife in her hand at me. "Don't think I'm cooking for you, though. You can starve for all I care."

"Ouch," I say placing a hand on my chest. "Do you really have to be so mean?"

"Go away, Graham," she snaps, chopping up a zucchini.

Instead of doing that, I move to take a seat on one of the elevated stools, watching her for a couple of seconds. Her blue eyes are bright, focused only on the chopping board.

"I would apologize, but you kind of provoked me, Isabella," I point out.

She stops chopping abruptly, looking up at me. "I didn't provoke you. You told me something and I gave you my honest opinion."

"Really? So you think you did nothing wrong?"

She crosses her arms over her chest. "Fine. I could have tried to be nicer about it when I said you were a conceited jackass who only cares about himself."

My lips twitch. "There's room for improvement with that apology."

"I'm not apologizing. You said my life was miserable."

"No, I asked if your life was miserable. I don't know anything about your life, Isabella."

"Big difference," she mutters. "And you also kicked me out."

Now that, I feel bad about.

"I shouldn't have done that, darling. I'm sorry."

She watches me for a couple of seconds before huffing out a breath.

"I shouldn't have called you a coward or said all those things."

I shrug. "You're right. But it's water under the bridge. Now, what's for lunch?" I ask, rubbing my hands together excitedly.

Her eyes narrow. "You only apologized so I'd give you food, didn't you?"

"That's not something you can prove." I grin.

She shakes her head. "You're only getting food if you help out. Come on." She gestures for me to walk around and join her. I do so, standing right by her side in front of the chopping block. "Have you ever diced onions?"

I snort. "Do I look like the sort of man that's ever done something like that?"

Isabella rubs her forehead. "How have you survived this long without picking up a basic important life skill like cooking? You've never lived alone? What about in college?"

"There's always been a private chef around for most of my life. And in college, I went to Oxford and one of my dorm mates was a really good cook. Plus I could have ordered take out whenever I wanted."

Isabella glances up at me in shock. "You went to Oxford?"

"You don't have to look so surprised," I say with an eye roll.

"Come on, you know it's surprising. Why didn't you go to choose a college in this country? You could have gone to Harvard or Yale. I'm sure you'd have gotten in, smarty pants."

I hesitate before replying, feeling something clench in my gut.

"My brother was already in Harvard. It was my father's alma mater so naturally he wanted all his kids to go. Oxford was my way of rebelling."

Isabella arches an eyebrow. "In what world is going to Oxford a way of rebelling?"

"Mine. Plus, at that time, I wanted nothing more than to be away from my family," I tell her, my jaw clenched.

Isabella seems to be able to tell it's a sore subject because she drops it.

"Alright. You were able to get into one of the most prestigious schools in the world, so I'm sure you can manage some onions and vegetables. Just chop them up, okay?"

I nod and she moves away so I can start. Soon enough, I'm chopping away. I can't believe I'm willingly doing this. I really don't enjoy cooking. It feels like a chore.

"We should put some music on," I tell her. "Could you go grab the remote in the living room? It controls the in-built speakers, too."

She nods and goes to do so. When she returns, I connect my phone to the speakers. As soon as the first song comes on, Isabella starts to laugh.

"Oh my god, is that Taylor Swift?" she asks.

"Yes," I mutter. "Got a problem with it?"

She stops laughing and shakes her head. "Not at all. It's adorable. I've not met many grown men that listen to Taylor Swift. What else have you got in that playlist? Ariana Grande? K-pop?"

I roll my eyes. "Music has no age or gender restrictions, darling, in case you weren't aware."

She's still highly amused. "I know. It's just… you have the same music taste as my eleven-year-old cugina."

As soon as she finishes the statement, her eyes widen.

"Cugina, huh?" I smirk.

She groans. "That just slipped out."

"You speak Italian."

Isabella sighs in resignation. "Yes, I speak Italian."

"Good to know," I tell her. "So, is this the same cousin you mentioned earlier?"

"No, that was Matthew. The one I'm talking about was Maria. They're twins."

"And then there's another one that's apparently powerful enough to know if you end up in a police station here in Denver, despite being in New York," I say meaningfully.

"He might not find out. But it's always a possibility given how connected he is," she clarifies.

"And you're not going to tell me who he is?"

She shakes her head. "Nope."

I'm going to die of curiosity.

"Okay. So you have how many cousins?" I ask. "You can answer that, right?"

"Just those three."

"And you all live in the same house?"

She nods. "It's nice having family close. I didn't use to think that, though. There was a time I wanted nothing more than to get out of the house because it was filled with people I hated. But in recent years, things have really improved. It's easier to breathe there."

"People you hated?" I prompt.

Isabella makes a face, grabbing the vegetables I've finished chopping. She starts to prepare the food and I start to think she's not going to reply.

"You're really nosy, you know that?" she asks.

"It's not my fault you're acting all mysterious. Plus, we're bonding. How are we going to get to know each other if you don't tell me anything?"

She grabs one of the pots and fills it with water before placing it on the burner.

"My father was one of those people," she says softly without looking at me.

My eyebrows rise. "Was?"

"Was. He died a long time ago."

My heart aches for her. I can't imagine the pain she must have gone through. "I'm sorry, darling."

"I'm not," she says softly. "Trust me, Graham, he was a terrible person."

"He was still your father, though." I know all about having complicated relationships with fathers. But if my old man died, I'd certainly feel grief.

"Yes, and he did a lot of damage. Damage only a father could have inflicted."

That last statement resonates deep within me. She doesn't say anymore, and I don't ask. I take the chance and change the topic.

"So, what do you listen to? Since my playlist is so abhorrent."

There's a smile on her face when she turns around. "I never said it was abhorrent. I actually like the songs."

"What's your playlist like?"

She thinks about it for a second. "A lot of country music. I like rap and some EDM, too."

"Huh," I say, impressed. "I never would have guessed. But it suits you."

"I'll take that as a compliment," she says before going back to her cooking.

I watch her cook for a long time, taking note of her little expressions, the way she moves. She bites her bottom lip sometimes. It's a thoroughly unconscious act. And one that keeps bringing my gaze to her full pink lips.

"I think that's the longest you've gone without speaking or moving around. You've been watching me for several minutes. It's creepy."

My eyebrows rise. She's right. I'm never that still. But while watching her, everything in me seems to grow silent, even my thoughts.

"Not my fault you're so beautiful, darling," I drawl. "I like watching you."

Instead of smiling or blushing like I was hoping, Isabella rolls her eyes. "If you have time to stand around watching me, you might as well set the table. The food will be ready soon."

My jaw nearly drops. I compliment the woman and she decides to order me around. Unbelievable.

"Aren't you a little ball of sunshine," I say sarcastically.

She smirks. "I know, right? What are you still waiting for? Table, now."

I scoff before walking away to do as she asked.

Ten minutes later and the food is ready. We both sit at the table in the dining room. It's a long table, made to seat about twelve, but we're seated right by each other. I smile as I stare down at my plate of food. She made pasta primavera, and it smells heavenly. I'm about to dig in when she slaps my hand away from the food.

"Uh-uh. We say grace first."

"You're kidding!" I exclaim.

"No. I'm Catholic and we say grace in my family. The only reason we didn't this morning was because I was too out of it to care. But you don't have to if you don't want to," she adds, looking me straight in the eye.

I get the feeling it would be in my best interest to just go with it.

"Carry on, Sunshine," I prompt.

She rolls her eyes at the nickname but doesn't comment on it. She clears her throat before intertwining her hands. "Thank you, Lord, for this meal. And for the hands that prepared it. And thank you for sending Graham last night to help me out of the situation I found myself in. Amen."

"Amen," I repeat dutifully, staring at her face. I'm feeling a little awestruck.

Isabella glances up at me. "Why are you looking at me like that?"

"Nothing. I just didn't think you'd be religious."

I can't remember the last time I stepped foot into a church. Maybe for a wedding? My parents didn't raise us to be religious. Not that I have anything against it; it's just never mattered to me. Isabella seems to care about it a lot, though.

And I don't miss the fact that she mentioned last night. It's clear it affected her way more than she's letting on.

"Well, I am," Isabella says. "You can eat now."

I smile. "Thanks." My eyes widen as soon as I take a bite of the food. "Holy fuck, that's good."

She makes a face at that. "You know you swear excessively, right?"

I groan. "Really, Sunshine? Now you have a problem with my swearing? You swear, too," I point out.

"Yeah, but in moderation. I don't add a curse word into every other sentence. You went to Oxford; I'm sure your vocabulary is more expansive than that."

"You sound like my mother. Quit scolding me," I mutter.

That makes her smile. "I do tend to mother people a lot."

"And why is that?" I ask before taking another bite of my food. "You have younger siblings?"

"No, I'm an only child. But I had a huge hand in raising the twins so I guess that's where it comes from."

I nod in understanding. "I guess that's why you're such a bloody good cook, too," I state. "Seriously, this is better than the pasta our chef back home prepares. Marry me?"

She scoffs. "Not going to happen."

"Fine. But I'm going to have to keep you. Because this is truly amazing." I grin before eating another forkful.

"You're welcome."

Neither of us speaks again until we're done with our meal. Isabella and I are heading to the living room when I point out that she's still in her clothes from last night.

"Oh, right," she says, looking down at herself. "I don't have anything to change into."

"You can wear one of my shirts. You should probably shower, too. Just head up to my room."

She peers at me and I chuckle.

"That wasn't a line, Sunshine. Trust me, if I was propositioning you, you'd know it," I say, adding a wink. "Grab anything you want to wear from my closet. What do you want to do while we wait for the storm to clear up?"

"We could watch a movie."

"No problem. Could you grab my laptop on your way back? It's on the desk in the room."

She doesn't immediately leave, and I arch an eyebrow in question.

"Why are you doing all this? You only just met me yesterday, Graham. You've known for me a few hours and yet…" She trails off.

I pause, thinking about it. She's right. It's weird. But for some reason, I'm completely at ease with her.

"I don't know. It's weird, but I feel like I've known you for longer than a few hours," I say sincerely.

Actually, it feels like I've known her forever.

Her eyes soften. "Okay."

We spend the rest of the day watching movies on the couch. This morning aside, it's the most peaceful day I've had in a long time. And I spent it with a woman that's practically a stranger.

But she doesn't feel like one, though.