Free Oxblood by AnnaLisa Grant Page A

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    â€œThank you,” I smiled softly. I pierced the pasta with my fork and blew on it for a moment before I put it in my mouth. I began to compare it to Sam’s spaghetti sauce—the recipe I swore no one could ever hold a candle to—and immediately felt bad because it wasn’t even a contest. The flavors exploded in my mouth, and I involuntarily let out a little moan.
    â€œWell!” Ian responded with a sexy smile. “That’s definitely a good sound.”
    I blushed, embarrassed. “Yeah, it’s really good. I can’t afford to eat like this at home,” I admitted.
    â€œYet you can afford to fly to Italy,” Ian challenged me. I put my fork down and took another sip of wine, which made the food taste even better. I didn’t know if I should tell Ian about the airline settlement, but then decided that he probably wouldn’t care. Ian didn’t come across like the type who was out for the money; I got the feeling that his MO entailed something much larger. And perhaps telling him would assure him of my ability to finance my own journey to find Gil?
    â€œWell, I choose not to eat like this at home.” I paused, carefully choosing my words. “Do you remember the crash of Northwest flight eight-fifteen?”
    â€œWas that the flight that crashed on the runway six years ago?” he asked, a worried look crossing his face.
    â€œFive. My parents were on that flight.” Throughout the years, the responses after hearing that my parents had died in a horrific plane crash varied from apathy to tears. I was curious what his would be.
    â€œI’m really sorry, Victoria. I know that must have been very difficult for you,” he said. His face was soft and compassionate, but not condescending. His eyes connected with mine, and I knew the next thing out of his mouth wasn’t going to be another suggestion of how going gluten-­free or doing tai chi in the park would change my perspective on life.
    I nodded. It always seemed strange to say thank you. “The crash was a pilot error. Turns out the airline let him work too many shifts in a row. So, along with the other one hundred and seventy-four families, we received a settlement from the airline that was more money than anyone really needs.”
    â€œAnd so it’s been just you and Gil then. No wonder you’re here.” Ian leaned forward. “That’s . . . That’s really something.” He looked like he wanted to say something else, but then he shook his head slightly and picked up his fork.
    â€œI wasn’t asking for your sympathy. I just wanted you to know that if me sticking around is a matter of money, I can carry my own weight,” I told him resolutely.
    â€œMoney is not an issue, Victoria,” he replied without looking at me.
    There was an awkward silence, so I turned back to my food as well. In between bites, I took in the restaurant, admiring the simple decor. There were paintings hanging on the taupe walls and two marble statues of women draped in robes flanking the entrance to the kitchen. There were also decorative maps of Italy featuring different regions along the wall behind Ian. Families told loud, animated stories, emptying bottle after bottle of wine as they laughed. Couples sat close, kissing and holding each other while deep in deep conversation. Public affection like that would get lots of stares back home, but here, no one but me gave them a second look. Dining out in Europe did not appear to be a quick experience. Sam would kill me if I let a table sit as long as these servers did.
    â€œSo, what did Gil do that was so out of character?” Ian asked as the waitress cleared our plates.
    I made a hard line with my lips, still feeling the need to keep the existence of the journal under lock and key.
    â€œDon’t worry. I’m not going to ask for details, Victoria. It doesn’t really matter. You’ll be gone tomorrow, and as