Free The Millionaire's Arranged Marriage by Tina Martin Page A

closer to him and took a seat. Never in her four years of working for him had she seen him so downcast. He looked like he was about to have a breakdown.
    “Am I a bad person?” he asked her.
    “Well, Suh ...”
    “Be honest with me, Beatrice.”
    “I think you’re harsh wit’ certain peoples,” she told him. “You’ve always treated me kind, and I ‘preciate that, but you treat lil’ Mrs. Gabrielle like she has a plague. And she’s such a sweet girl.”
    “She is a sweet girl,” he admitted.
    “Don’t think I heard you correctly,” Beatrice said, sounding bewildered.
    “I said she’s a sweet girl,” he repeated, covering his face with his hands. “Did you know what she did for my Father?”
    “What do you mean?”
    “You remember when my Father was sick?”
    “Yes, when he needed the bone marrow and y’all boys were all rallying fuh matching donors. I ‘member that.”
    Dilvan nodded. “ Gabrielle was a match,” Dilvan said, swallowing hard. He dared not cry. “My Father is alive because of her, and I hurt her. I hurt her, Beatrice, because I was upset with my Mother and I took it out on Gabrielle when all she ever tried to do was love me.” Dilvan’s face turned a shade of red. He hid his face in shame, then stood up, walked down the stairs, out onto the dark beach.

 
     
     
    CHAPTER 14
     
    Gabrielle
     
    - - -
     
    “Have you ever tried tiramisu?” Tyson asks as he opens the fridge and takes out a container.
    “No.”
    “Have a seat,” he says, gesturing towards one of the four white barstools that lines the opposite side of the island he’s working from. The kitchen has an eclectic, industrial type feel – the biggest room in the house – with stainless steel appliances, a double oven, and a French door refrigerator with thru-the-door ice and water. The island countertop, as well as all the other countertops in the kitchen, is lime green quartz. Charcoal-colored tiles cover the floor, which works well with the lime green, white and silver colors of the kitchen.
    I sit down and watch him tie on a white apron.
    “I made these lady fingers a few days ago, but instead of making them like rolls, I made them in cupcake form. I like to serve tiramisu in little glass dishes.”
    “ And how do you make lady whatcha-ma-call-its?”
    He looks at me and smiles. “Lady fingers.”
    “ You know what...nevermind. You must get tired of talking about food.”
    “ No, not at all. I’m actually surprised you’re curious. Most people don’t care about the process, as long as they get the finished product.”
    “Well, I can cook a little, but I’m not good with making dessert, so I’m very intrigued by this.”
    “Cool. So, um ...to make the lady whatcha-ma-call-its,” he says, then winks at me, “All you do is mix eggs, white sugar, all-purpose flour and baking soda. Of course they would be measured out appropriately, depending on how much tiramisu you’re making.”
    “Right.”
    “It bakes for eight minutes, and it’s done. I soaked them in espresso and rum and now that they’re no longer soggy, I’m going to layer them between mascarpone cream.”
    He pops the lid off of the container he took from the refrigerator and says, “Taste.”
    “Huh?”
    “Taste it. Dip your finger in it.”
    “What is it?”
    “Just taste it, sweetie.”
    I cautiously push the tip of my index finger into the mixture and he watch es as I lick it from my finger. “This is good. What is it?”
    “ Mascarpone cream, made of mascarpone cheese, heavy cream, sugar and egg yolk. So what I’ll do with this is layer it between the lady fingers.”
    I watch him work and once he’s assembled the dessert, he sprinkles on cocoa and chocolate shavings.
    “And voilà. This is Gabrielle’s tasty tiramisu.”
    He brings a dessert dish around to me with a spoon. Sitting at the barstool next to me, he says, “Dig in.”
    “Where’s your spoon ? I know you don’t expect me to eat all of this by myself