Chapter 30
Cece
Iwoke with a start, disoriented by the unfamiliar angle of light streaming through the windows.
Wait, not light. Darkness. My eyes adjusted slowly, taking in the sleek outlines of Rafe's living room furniture.
I'd slept through the entire afternoon, sprawled naked on the couch where Rafe had thoroughly claimed every inch of me. The memory sent a delicious shiver through my body despite my groggy state. I stretched, feeling the pleasant ache between my legs, and realized he’d draped a throw blanket over my exposed skin.
The penthouse was quiet except for a faint clatter coming from the direction of the kitchen.
And an aroma that made my stomach growl with sudden, fierce hunger.
I hadn't eaten since... actually, I couldn't remember when I'd last eaten.
Sometime before my little camera show that had brought Rafe home in a state of barely contained desire.
I sat up, wincing slightly at the tenderness in muscles I hadn't used quite so vigorously in a long time.
The blanket slipped, exposing my breasts to the cool air.
For a moment, I considered returning to the bedroom for clothes, but the tantalizing smell pulled me toward the kitchen instead.
Wrapping the throw securely around me, I tucked the corner between my breasts to create a makeshift sarong before padding across the floor.
I stopped in the doorway, my breath catching at the sight before me.
Rafe stood with his back to me, wearing nothing but a pair of gray sweatpants that hung low on his hips and a fitted black t-shirt that stretched across the breadth of his shoulders.
The muscles of his back flexed beneath the thin cotton as he stirred something on the stove.
His hair was slightly damp, as if he'd showered recently, and curled at the nape of his neck in a way that made my fingers itch to touch it.
I must have made some small sound because he turned, eyes finding mine immediately. His gaze traveled down my body, and his lips curved into a slow smile that made my knees weak.
"I was beginning to think you'd sleep all night," he said, voice warm with amusement. "Though I couldn't blame you. I worked you pretty hard."
Heat flooded my cheeks, but I lifted my chin. "Satisfied would be the word I'd use."
His eyes darkened at that. "Good."
I gestured toward my improvised covering. "I should probably go put some clothes on."
"Don't," he said immediately. "Stay just like that."
I pointed toward my makeshift sarong. "I'm naked under this."
"I know." His grin was pure sin, all white teeth and dimples against the dark shadow of stubble that had grown in since morning. "That's precisely why I want you to stay like that."
My body responded immediately to the heat in his gaze, nipples hardening beneath the soft fabric of the throw. "You're insatiable."
"Only for you." He turned back to the stove, but not before I caught the intensity in his eyes—something beyond mere lust that made my heart stutter inside my chest.
Heading over to the kitchen island, I slid onto one of the high stools and arranged the throw to cover all the essential bits while still giving Rafe an eyeful of leg. Two could play at this game.
"What are you making?" I inhaled deeply. "It smells incredible."
He gave me a tentative glance over his shoulder. "Chicken cacciatore. Nonna's recipe."
Recognizing the dish, I perked up. "Wait, isn't that what you bring to Sunday dinners sometimes? The chicken everyone raves about?"
He turned fully and pressed a finger to his lips with an exaggerated expression of secrecy. "Shh. Everyone thinks Nonna makes it for me to bring."
"You're telling me you make it yourself?"
"Don't sound so shocked," he said, mock offense coloring his tone. "I'm Italian. Cooking is in my blood."
"I thought Lucia handled all the food around here."
"She does, usually." Rafe stirred the sauce, then replaced the lid on the pot. "But there are a few things I prefer to make myself. This is one of them."
"Why the secrecy?" I asked, genuinely curious. "You could impress everyone with your cooking skills."
He shrugged, the movement drawing my attention to the way his shirt pulled across his chest. "I like having things that are just mine. Things no one else gets to see." His eyes met mine and the intensity in them stole my breath. "Well, almost no one."
Something warm bloomed in my chest at the thought that I was being granted access to parts of him others never saw. First the music, then the club, and now this. He was letting me in, piece by piece.
"Your secret's safe with me," I promised, drawing an X over my heart. "Though I might need to sample this famous dish before I can fully commit to silence."
He laughed, a real laugh that flipped my stomach. "Coming right up. Wine?"
"Please."
He moved with easy grace around the kitchen, opening a bottle of red and pouring two glasses. The domesticity of the moment struck me—how natural it felt to be here with him like this, me in nothing but a blanket, him cooking for us both as if we'd been doing this for years.
"You know," I said conversationally as he handed me a glass, "there's an entire social media phenomenon dedicated to men in gray sweatpants."
Raising an eyebrow, he took a slow sip of his wine. "Is that so?"
"Mmm." I nodded, gaze deliberately drifting down to where the soft fabric clung to his narrow hips. "Women have very specific thoughts about men in gray sweatpants."
His lips stretched into a devilish grin while those dark eyes danced with mischief. "Why do you think I wore them?"
I nearly choked on my wine. "You did not choose those on purpose."
Shrugging, he turned back to the stove. "Maybe I did, maybe I didn't. I'll never tell."
"Bastard."
"You like it."
I couldn't deny that, so I just sipped my wine and watched him work. There was something hypnotic about the way he moved—confident, purposeful, each action deliberate and precise. Just like when he touched me.
When the timer dinged, he plated the food with the same meticulous attention he seemed to apply to everything. The rich aroma of tomatoes, herbs, and slow-cooked chicken made my stomach growl embarrassingly loudly.
Instead of setting the plate in front of me, Rafe picked up a fork and speared a piece of chicken bathed in the savory red sauce. He blew on it gently, then held it out to me.
"Open," he commanded softly.
My lips parted automatically. Something about his tone bypassed my brain entirely and spoke directly to my body. He guided the fork into my mouth, his eyes never leaving mine as the flavors exploded on my tongue—tangy tomato, sweet basil, and a complex medley of spices I couldn't begin to name.
I moaned involuntarily, eyes fluttering closed as I savored the bite.
"Good?" he asked in a low gravelly voice.
"Incredible," I admitted. Opening my eyes, I found him staring at me with an intensity that turned my insides to mush. "Your Nonna taught you well."
"She did." He finally set the plate in front of me, then took his own seat beside me rather than across the island. "My bisnonno was a chef in Naples. She learned everything from him, then passed it down."
We ate in companionable silence for a few minutes, the quiet punctuated only by the clink of forks against plates and the occasional appreciative sound from me. The food was genuinely excellent—rich and complex, the kind of dish that spoke of generations of perfecting.
"How did your parents take it when you told them you wanted to dance?" Rafe asked, finally breaking the silence.
I paused with my fork halfway to my mouth. "Not well," I admitted after a moment. "My mother especially. She's practical. Raised in a world where careers are things like accounting or nursing or teaching. Safe, stable jobs with benefits and retirement plans."
"Not dancing."
"Definitely not dancing." I set down my fork as memories washed over me. "She thought it was just a phase. Something I'd grow out of when I realized how hard it would be to make a living. But I never did grow out of it. It's like breathing for me."
Rafe studied me, his dark eyes intent. "I've never seen you dance properly.”
"I'd like to show you sometime,” I said. “Real dancing. Not the watered-down stuff I teach to preschoolers."
"I'd like that." The simple sincerity in his voice made my heart twist.
We finished our meal in that easy quiet that had settled between us. When we'd cleared our plates, Rafe refilled our wine glasses and we moved to the stools on the other side of the island, facing each other.
"So," I said, taking a fortifying sip of my wine, "my mother."
"Your mother," he echoed, waiting for me to continue.
"She's... traditional. And while she's making progress with accepting Evie's situation—thank heaven for Liam sending them on that tropical vacation—I'm honestly relieved they're away right now.
" I traced the rim of my glass with my fingertip.
"I'm not sure I'm ready to face her judgment about me following in Evie's footsteps by marrying for money. "
The words hung in the air between us, and I immediately regretted the phrasing. Rafe's expression darkened, something shuttering behind his eyes as he set down his glass with a thunk.
"Is that still what this is to you?" he asked, voice carefully controlled. "A marriage of convenience? A business transaction?"
Was that still how I saw our arrangement? A week ago, I might have said yes without hesitation. But now?
Now, after he'd shown me his hidden sanctuary, after he'd played for me, after he'd held me while I slept and cooked for me and looked at me like I was something precious? After I'd started to see the man beneath the polished exterior, the wounded heart he kept so carefully guarded?
I studied him for a long moment, taking in the vulnerability beneath his carefully controlled expression. His jaw was tight, that muscle jumping beneath his skin as he waited for my answer.
"No," I admitted softly. "That's not what this is anymore. Not to me."
"What is it, then?"
Taking a deep breath, I gathered my courage. "I don't know exactly. But I know I want more than temporary. More than convenient." My voice dropped to barely above a whisper. "I want real."
Relief flashed in his eyes before he reached across the counter and cupped my face between his palms. "Real," he repeated.
"Real," I confirmed, turning my face to press a kiss to his palm. "If that's what you want too."
Instead of answering with words, Rafe stood, walked around the island, and pulled me from my stool into his arms. The throw blanket slipped to the floor as his mouth claimed mine in a kiss that left no doubt about what he wanted.
And as I melted against him, naked and vulnerable in more ways than one, I knew I wasn't just dancing through someone else's choreography. I was creating something new, something unexpected. Something that felt remarkably like home.