Total pages in book: 101
Estimated words: 98321 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 492(@200wpm)___ 393(@250wpm)___ 328(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 98321 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 492(@200wpm)___ 393(@250wpm)___ 328(@300wpm)
“Thank you.” I went over and placed it on the kitchen island, which also functioned as my dining table and was already set for two. “Can I take your coat?”
He shrugged out of a black wool double-breasted coat. Beneath it he had on dark jeans and a black cashmere sweater over a white-collared shirt. His clothes fit him as if they’d been custom tailored, but then, he had a body that just looked good in fitted clothing—lean and muscular but not bulky, with just the right amount of brawn to his chest. His hands, I’d noticed at the table last night, were surprisingly elegant for someone who worked with them, with long, graceful fingers, a neat manicure, and thick, masculine wrists. The kind of hands you could imagine aggressively pounding a hammer or ripping out drywall but also gliding smoothly over your bare skin.
Turning away from him, I clamped down on the troublesome thought and headed for the closet, where I hung his coat next to mine.
“Smells great in here,” he said, looking at the stove, where a couple pots were on the burners. “What are we having?”
“Pappardelle with sausage, kale, and spicy tomato sauce.” I went over and lifted the lid on my sauce, taking a quick taste. “Can I get you something to drink?”
“Water’s fine.”
I grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge and handed it to him. “Rehydrating?”
He grimaced, leaning back against the counter. “Yeah. Next time I think it’s a good idea to drink an entire bottle of Barolo with bourbon for dessert, remind me of the headache I have today. And how I couldn’t drive myself home. And how I had to go get my car before church.”
“You got up for church this morning? I’m impressed.” I had to elbow him aside to grab a large serving bowl from a low cupboard.
“Of course I did.” He sounded shocked I’d question his devotion to Jesus as he uncapped his water bottle. “Father Mike and I are tight these days.”
“Oh yeah? And why’s that?”
“Because I needed a miracle to avoid getting married, and I figured Father Mike might have an in. Also I wanted God to see me helping my Nonna into the pew, getting on my knees to pray, putting money in the collection basket, admitting I’m a sinner, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera.” He tipped up the water bottle.
Shaking my head, I opened the oven and took out the loaf of bread warming inside. “I’m not sure God’s going to look favorably enough on your et cetera brand of piety to provide a miracle. What would that even look like?”
“My dad would change his mind about this stupid settling down bullshit. I could just live my life the way I want to live it.”
“I thought you said you wanted a family,” I said, grabbing a bread knife and slicing the loaf.
“I do. But why does he have to put this arbitrary number on it? Why can’t I just do it when I’m ready?”
“It does seem unfair,” I told him. “But then again, so does the whole biological clock thing. Men can reliably and safely father children long past the age women can easily conceive them.”
“Yeah, that seems like bullshit too,” he agreed. “Do you want me to do something to help you?”
I glanced at him over one shoulder, quirking one brow. “You cook?”
“Yes, I cook.” He rolled his eyes. “I moved out of my parents’ house when I was eighteen. I would have starved if I couldn’t cook.”
“In that case, can you check the pasta? I think it’s probably done.” I glanced at him over my shoulder. “Grab a fork from that drawer to your right.”
He set his water bottle down, washed his hands at the sink, and took a fork from the drawer. Bumping it closed with his hip, he lifted a long, flat pappardelle noodle from the simmering pot on the stove. After letting it cool for a second, he plucked it off the fork with his fingers and sank his teeth into one end. Then he nodded. “Done.”
“Okay, switch the gas off on that burner, please. And the one under the sauce.”
He did as I asked while I opened an upper cupboard door and tried to reach the pasta bowls on the third shelf. But I was wearing ballet flats, and I couldn’t quite get my fingertips on the edges. My kitchen was tiny, but the design made good use of vertical space, meaning the cupboards went all the way to the ceiling. Normally, I’d just climb onto the stone counter, but I didn’t want to do that with Enzo here.
“Need help?”
I gritted my teeth. “Yes.”
He came up behind me—so close I could smell his cologne, which made my lady parts awaken from a deep slumber—and easily brought two wide, shallow bowls down, setting them in front of me. “There you go. You should have asked them to put a rolling ladder in here for you. Like at a library.”