“Yeah, Boss. Of course. I’ll find who did this and there’ll be payback, big time. Coming home for the wedding first, though. Obviously we have our usual suspects.”
I block it all out. I don’t want to hear anything about his work. I had enough of it growing up that the whole damn thing gives me indigestion. I make a vow right then and there to invest in those fancy noise-canceling headphones.
I sit up and reach for his hand. I give him a little tug.
I point to the kitchen. I need to inventory what he has on hand. I saw fresh herbs outside the window by the garden, and suspect if he has a housekeeper and an on-site cook that he’s got a well-stocked pantry to boot.
I pause when he shakes his head, though, and makes a little walking motion with two fingers. He’s coming with me, I guess.
I clean up in the biggest bathroom I’ve ever seen, then find myself a pair of his boxers and a clean T-shirt. The boxers are laughably huge on me, but the T-shirt hits just below the ass, so it works. Tomorrow, we shop. I know we were supposed to today, so I’m guessing he’ll have no problem with it if we shop tomorrow.
Tavi pads noiselessly behind me as I walk to the kitchen and do a quick inventory.
“Wow,” I breathe to myself, since he’s still talking in Italian on the phone. The pantry’s stunning and fully stocked with rice, flours and breads, onion and garlic and hard root vegetables in a wooden bin, spices and herbs and non-perishables. It’s beautifully organized like one might find in a home and garden cooking show. With a little squeal of delight, I fill my arms with a bottle of olive oil, a few onions, some garlic cloves, and thick carrots with the stems still on them.
I walk over to the stove and lay them beside it, then hum to myself while I take in the fridge. It’s as well-stocked and beautifully organized as the pantry, boasting a variety of cheeses, cream and butter, lettuces and prepared salads, meats wrapped in fresh butcher paper, and pretty glass dishes filled with soups and casseroles that make my mouth water. I don’t want to eat any of the prepared food, though. I want to cook for Tavi.
I take some thin-sliced chicken and baby spinach with the heavy cream and chicken stock, and head to the stove. I’m still humming to myself while the water boils. I cut thick slabs of fresh bread I find wrapped in paper on the counter, rub the wedges with a clove of garlic, brush fresh butter and olive oil on it, then broil. Soon, the kitchen smells like heaven.
I’ve blocked out Tavi’s conversations, so I don’t realize he’s talking to me when he curses in Italian.
I turn and look over my shoulder at him. I didn’t hear what he said. “You talking to me?”
“Yeah, baby,” he says in his best gangster accent. “I’m talkin’ ta you.”
I have a slice of bread in one hand and a clove of garlic in the other. “Quindi, che cosa vuoi?” I ask him. What do you want then?
“I said where’d you learn to cook like this?” Before I answer him, I turn involuntarily and look back at the stove. Seared chicken simmers in a creamy sauce made with cream, butter, and chicken broth. Leaves of basil and spinach as well as freshly grated parmesan-reggiano cheese sits in a glass ramekin, ready to garnish. The pasta boils behind it, and I have a small dish of chopped salad with a homemade vinaigrette on the side. The kitchen smells of toasted bread and garlic.
“Oh, I learned from one of the chefs when I was alone one summer in Tuscany.”
“Fuckin’ glad I don’t have you back in America. Jesus, baby, I might not ever take you back.”
I look at him in surprise, not sure if he’s joking or not. “What?”
“My brothers would smother me in my sleep to get to you.”
Oh, right. I forgot the Rossi brothers come to blows over food. I smile to myself.
“Well lucky for you, we’re shacking up.”
He doesn’t so much as crack a smile but pushes himself off the stool by the counter and stalks over to me, his eyes glowing with ferocity. I take a step backward, and my back hits the stove.
“What?”
“It’s sexy watching you cook.”
“There’s no damn way you’re hard again.” I put the food down and wash my hands quickly by the sink. I close my eyes when he comes up behind me, his flank at my back, his hard cock pressed to my ass. I close my eyes.
I always dreamed about this. I’m not really sure why. But this, this right here. I fantasized about a domestic setting just like this, where my husband would catch me doing something mundane and simple like washing dishes or cooking dinner. He’d come up behind me and sweep my hair to the side so he could kiss my neck.
I love that fantasy. It’s so… so normal. And after everything I’ve been through, I crave normal.
“Keep cooking,” he says. I squeal when he grabs my hips and yanks me so that he can grind against me. I squirm in anticipation. And keep cooking.
I stir the sauce and roll the basil before I cut it into thin, vibrant green strips. It smells like sunshine and summer. I’ve always loved fresh basil.
I groan when Tavi’s tongue laps the back of my neck. My fingers flick open over the bubbling pan, and the basil melts into the sauce.
With him still at my back, I open the oven and take out the garlic toast, just as the timer goes off for the pasta. He backs off and gives me space to do the more dangerous kitchen tasks, but when I begin plating the food, he’s back at me, his hands at my breasts and his mouth at my neck.
“We’re ready to eat,” I whisper.
“Yeah, baby, I’m ready to eat you,” he responds. My thighs clench together and a deep spasm of need washes over me. Oh God, he’s so hot it’s unnerving.
“Well first, let’s eat some dinner.” I turn to face him with a plate in each hand. “Shall we?”
“We shall.”
We opt to sit side-by-side on little kitchen stools by the counter.
He groans with the first bite.
By the second, his eyes are closed.
At the third, he asks me to marry him.
“We’re already getting married,” I say, taking a sip of wine. It’s so crisp and clean, my tastebuds sing. “And my God, where’d you get this wine from?”
“From our vineyards.”
“Nooo,” I breathe. “I heard of the Rossi family vineyards when I was little! I forgot all about them.”
I twirl the pasta around my fork and spear a bite of chicken. He’s right. It is good. “Okay, this is delicious but it has more to do with the quality of the ingredients than anything else.”
“Uh.” He shakes his head. “Don’t you dare go all modest on me.”
“But I’m not going to brag. My father taught me never to talk about my own accomplishments.”
“And if you don’t brag, I’ll spank you,” he says nonchalantly. “So take your pick.” He takes a huge bite of chicken and groans again. “Your father was a prick.”
He was. No argument there.
“Tell me about the rest of your family.”
He’s spearing more pasta with his fork when he asks, so I don’t get to look in his eyes. I guess it doesn’t much matter. I’m marrying him. I won’t be a Regazza anymore, and thank God for that. Still, I’m curious if he’s fishing for intel or genuinely curious.