The Beautiful (The Beautiful #1)(90)

“No, ma’am.” Celine smiled, a fond warmth settling in her stomach.

“You will love it.” Nonna beamed. Every time she moved, the smell of cinnamon and sage suffused the air. “Luca, per favore, where are the bowls?” She turned to the jolly giant, a stern expression on her face. “And, Michael, why are you standing there as if you were struck by lightning? Muoviti!” She flung her hands to one side, shooing him away.

For the first time since Celine had met Michael, she glimpsed a look of utter bewilderment on his face. He started to step forward, then stopped, clearing his throat and adjusting the cuffs of his sleeves.

Despite everything, a bubble of dark laughter threatened to burst past Celine’s lips. Michael’s diminutive grandmother had ripped the proverbial carpet from beneath his feet, and Celine relished every second of watching him stumble.

Nonna continued, “I can only imagine how little my grandson has thought of providing you adequate food, since he himself often forgets to eat.” She spun around, her shawl falling from one shoulder. “Let me look at you.” Without warning, she seized Celine by the chin, turning her face to and fro. “Bella, bella, bella,” she murmured. “Where did you get those eyes and those cheekbones, cara?”

“My mother.”

“Ovviamente,” Nonna said with a nod. “Your mother must have been a great beauty.” She winked at the man she’d called Luca. “Not unlike myself in my heyday.”

Luca laughed, the sound dancing about the dimly lit room as he stepped forward. “Since my cousin is clearly tongue-tied, I’ll have to apologize for him and make my own introduction.” He dipped his head into a small bow. “Luca Grimaldi, at your service.” When he smiled down at her, Celine noticed the similarity in the line of his jaw and along his tousled brow. But instead of lending him the scholarly look it did Michael, it made Luca appear quite rugged. Like a man who toiled with his hands in the outdoors for long stretches of time. His eyes brought to mind the color of melting chocolate, and—when he took Celine’s hand to press a polite kiss on it—the solidness of his grasp made her feel even more at ease.

Celine grinned up at him, marveling at how tall he was. “A pleasure to meet you, Luca.”

“Get the young lady a chair, caro,” Nonna chided Michael while spooning the hearty soup into small bowls she removed from Luca’s basket. Celine moved closer to help, but was brushed to one side without preamble. “No, no. You are our guest here.” Nonna handed Celine a bowl, and the steaming ribollita heated through Celine’s palms, winding toward her heart. A strange flutter took shape in her chest. She couldn’t recall the last time anyone had prepared something especially for her, with their own two hands. At home in Paris, she’d done most of the cooking. And Celine had never known either of her grandmothers.

She cleared her throat. “Thank you, Nonna.”

“Of course.” Nonna served bowls of soup to Michael and to Luca. “Sit, sit, before the food runs away from you.” She snorted. “Can you believe my grandson didn’t want me to come here today?” Nonna said as they all gathered around Michael’s desk for a makeshift meal of ribollita. “He protested most ardently. So of course I made Luca bring me.” She tucked away a silver curl. “Though the circumstances are less than ideal, I was eager to meet you, dear Celine.” Her eyes sparkled. “Michael speaks well of you.”

“All the time,” Luca added in a teasing tone.

Michael’s gaze pierced into his cousin’s skull with the precision of a lance. “Christ Almighty, let this end soon,” he grumbled as he stirred his soup slowly, his features morose.

Quicker than a bolt of lightning, Nonna smacked the back of his head. “Non pronunciare il nome del Signore invano, Michael Antonio Grimaldi!”

Michael closed his eyes and gritted his teeth, all while Nonna continued eating as if nothing at all had transpired. As if she hadn’t just struck New Orleans’ premier police detective for daring to take the Lord’s name in vain.

Celine’s lips twitched. She coughed. Then snorted in a most unladylike fashion. “I’m deeply sorry.” She cleared her throat.

“For what?” Luca asked, his question tinged with amusement.

“That I can’t watch that happen over and over in my head.”

Luca barked, a meaty fist pounding against the desk, jostling Celine’s soup. “She’ll do nicely, cousin.” He howled. To his left, Nonna tittered, her slender shoulders shaking with laughter.

“I suppose it doesn’t matter that no one asked your opinion,” Michael replied, his words coolly cutting.

“Not at all.” Luca slurped his soup and leaned toward Celine. “I’d tell you awful stories about him, but I fear we’ve already pressed my proper cousin too far by gracing his doorstep un-announced.”

Celine curved a brow. “Was he as trying a child as I suspect? Lots of sanctimonious questions and smug answers?”

“Worse. Next time I’ll tell you about his fifth birthday, when he stabbed me in the side of the neck with a newly sharpened pencil.” He bent closer. “I still bear the scar right here.” Luca pointed at a small dark spot just below his left ear.

Celine tsked, delighted to sense Michael’s ire flare hot from beside her.