Total pages in book: 61
Estimated words: 59551 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 298(@200wpm)___ 238(@250wpm)___ 199(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 59551 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 298(@200wpm)___ 238(@250wpm)___ 199(@300wpm)
“And then your parents put you in lessons?”
I choke on a snort, then wipe my mouth with a napkin. “Very funny. No, not exactly.”
“So, what happened?”
“So, I went home and begged for my own piano. And my dad called me a pansy and told me boys don’t play piano. And then I went and punched my brother Paolo.”
It’s her turn to snort. “Isn’t he older?”
“Yeah. I didn’t pick on the babies. Punching your older brother is fully allowed, though. Then I could get the beat-down I was craving and have a reason to cry.”
The shock on her face tells me I should’ve stopped at yeah.
“Too much. Sorry.”
“No, no.” She works to hide her dismay. “So, then what happened?”
“So, my ma had a fit. She blew up at my dad, and when he wouldn’t budge, didn’t speak to him for four days. And I got a piano. My dad told me if I didn’t practice every fucking day, he’d burn the thing. I practiced every fucking day.” I give her a rueful smile.
“You must be good.”
I grin. “State champion at age twelve.” I scrape the last of her delicious sauce off my plate.
“Do you want more? Was that enough food?”
“I always want more, angel. But I don’t need it.” I pat my belly.
She rolls her eyes. “I’ll make more next time. I don’t like fish reheated, so I didn’t make extra this time.”
I like how she’s eager to please. In this aspect, not any other. It turns me on. I pour myself more wine and sit back to watch her eat.
Marissa
Even though he told me state champion, I was unprepared for how incredible Gio plays. His fingers dance over the keys playing an incredible classical song I’ve heard in movies. Or elevators.
I stand behind him, admiring the ease with which he holds himself, how he looks over at me and winks, like he knows I’m blown away and thinks it’s funny.
“What song is this?”
“Solfeggietto in C. It sounds more impressive than it is,” he tells me. “It’s actually just scales.”
I laugh incredulously. “No, it’s pretty impressive.”
But I’m getting itchy. If I stay much longer, Gio’s going to think we’re having sex. I’ve already sat down over wine and dinner with him—which I know was probably a mistake. I wish I didn’t find him so damn irresistible.
As if Gio picks up on my tension, the moment he finishes the song, he gets up. “I’ll drive you home.”
“Or just to the train station. I can take the L home.”
“The fuck you are.”
I roll my eyes, but I knew he was going to say it, and I can’t deny the little flame of warmth it ignites. My dark hero. Obsessed with my safety.
I go to the kitchen to clean up.
“Leave them,” he orders. “I’ll clean up this time.”
“Spaciente,” I say. Sorry. “A chef never leaves her kitchen in disorder. It’s the cardinal rule.”
Gio’s eyes are warm on me as he leans in the doorway and just watches me move around. I’m lightning fast—every chef is. There’s no place for slow in a kitchen.
“I’d help, but I’m afraid to get in your way,” Gio observes.
“You would,” I confirm, starting the dishwasher and corking the wine. I wipe down the countertops and wash and dry my hands. “Let’s go.”
“Seven minutes, twenty-eight seconds,” Gio says, looking at his phone. “Impressive.”
“I know,” I say with a cocky smile. My prowess in the kitchen is one thing I don’t worry about.
I gather my things and we head downstairs, Gio taking the handcart and crate from me and pulling it himself. “What’s your favorite thing about cooking?” Gio asks in the elevator on the way down.
“My favorite thing?” I almost don’t want to tell him. Don’t want him to feel like he’s doing me a second favor here. But he is. “It’s the menu creation. So I enjoy this job.”
“This job.” he repeats with a nod, like he’s reminding himself he’s a job to me, not anything more. “Couldn’t you do more of that at Milano’s?”
I shrug. “Milano’s is a cafe. Pastries and coffee. Some deli foods. It’s not a gourmet sit-down restaurant.”
The elevator doors open and we emerge in the underground parking area. Gio moves closer to me, as if to shield my body with his as we make our way to his SUV.
“Couldn’t it be? I’m just thinking— you already have your own place. Why are you working for another chef when you could be doing it for yourself?”
I shake my head. It’s not like I haven’t dreamed of having my own restaurant. But it would be a nice restaurant. Not some washed up cafe in Cicero. “We don’t get the kind of clientele it takes to support the kind of restaurant I’d want.”
“What kind is that?”
Jesus, this guy is relentless. And these aren’t personal questions, but to me they are. They’re at the very essence of all my hopes and dreams. And every one of them bares another bit of my soul.