Chapter 10 Rob
ROB
Before you judge…don’t. I had no idea what I was doing. The simple truth was that I wanted Mateo. The popular quarterback I’d had a crush on in college had let me touch him, taste him, and rub up against him. And then he’d blown my mind.
Every damn day this week.
Amber’s PR idea was a good one, but better yet, it gave us an excuse to spend time together.
I’d happily subject myself to his wrath if it meant I got an up-close and personal view of those long lashes and full lips.
And if there was a snowball’s chance in hell he was willing to see how far we could go, I was all in.
I wanted to be inside Mateo Cavaretti…deep, deep inside him.
But I’d been raised in a nice Midwestern family who prized good manners above all else, so there’d be no jumping Mateo’s bones the second he showed up on my doorstep.
No, I vowed to show a little restraint tonight and find some common ground that didn’t involve sex or violence.
Food was my best bet. Specifically…marinara sauce.
“Marinara?”
I motioned for Mateo to give me his leather jacket as he stepped into the foyer. “Yeah.”
“What happened to taking me apart? Talk about false advertising,” he snarked.
I lowered my head to hide my smile, draped his jacket on a bench, and headed through a maze of rooms to the family-style kitchen. “Can I get you something to drink?”
“Beer, if you have it. If not, I—holy freaking crap.” Mateo marched to the wall of windows overlooking the sun setting over the Pacific. “This is a killer view. When they were building this place, I remember thinking it was going to be some monster mansion, but it’s really…nice.”
“Thanks, I like it.” I popped the tops off two beers and joined him at the window, handing him one. “I bought it from the contractor after the original investor pulled out.”
“Does anyone else live here?”
“No, just me.”
Mateo lifted a curious brow. “By yourself? Geez, it’s fuckin’ huge.”
He was right.
But I’d earned a fuckton of money and had invested wisely in stocks and real estate. I still owned condos in Manhattan and Dallas, a house in Hollywood Hills, an estate in Indiana near my family, and this house, a five-bedroom beach chalet.
It was more house than I needed and I swore I wasn’t one to flaunt my wealth, but privacy was important. Some athletes were stalked like rock stars and while that wasn’t me, I wanted to be insulated from prying eyes…to be on the safe side.
Besides, I’d always loved this stretch of beach. I used to come out here whenever I’d felt overwhelmed by college courses and football…and life in general. The miles of golden sand and the ribbon of blue that kissed the sky at the horizon had always calmed me.
“Where do you live?” I asked conversationally.
“Above the shop.” Mateo shot a suspicious glance my way. “Why?”
“So I can throw eggs at your window later. Why else?”
“Ha. Ha.”
I followed him to the kitchen and leaned on the island, sipping beer while Mateo poked his head into my oven and examined the built-in air fryer and the vent above the stove.
“Check out the fridge too. It’s new.”
Mateo opened the Sub-Zero and whistled. “It’s bigger than my first car, and…it’s empty. Don’t you eat?”
I patted my belly with a laugh. “I think it’s obvious I don’t miss many meals.”
His gaze went molten with desire and damn it, I couldn’t breathe for a hot second.
“Quit fishin’ for compliments. You look good, and you know it.”
“Gee, thanks.”
“Mmm.” Mateo flopped onto the nearest barstool. “You don’t really think I’m gonna share a family recipe, do you?”
I took another slug from my bottle. “No. But I think we need to officially call a truce and figure out a way to be civil. And maybe talk about this extracurricular thing we’ve got going on.”
“And you went with sauce,” Mateo teased, a ghost of a smile lifting his lips at one side. “Wow.”
I picked up one of the bottle caps I’d tossed onto the island earlier and threw it at his head. “You’re an asshole.”
He caught it easily, flashing a wide grin. “Fine. Truce…we’ll talk sauce and sex.”
“Sauce first.”
“Okay. But just so you know, that’s like asking for tips on salad dressings.
There are too many kinds to list—thousand island, blue cheese, ranch.
Same with ‘sauces.’ You can have pesto, alfredo, arrabbiata, Bolognese.
Even a basic marinara varies between chefs.
We still use my great-grandmother’s recipe at Boardwalk, but if I told you the ingredients, I’d have to murder you. ”
I chuckled, charmed by his mischievous expression. Mateo still had that bad-boy vibe he’d cultivated in college, and damn, it was intoxicating.
“Keep your recipes, and I’ll keep mine. However, in the spirit of a truce, I bought tomatoes and spices and pulled up a decent-looking marinara recipe online. I thought maybe you could give me some pointers.”
“How’d we go from a BJ in your office to marinara tips? Your sexy game has taken a nose dive, Vilmer,” he chided without heat. “Try again.”
I snort-laughed. “You’re right. How about a trade?”
“Hmm, like marinara pointers for a blowjob?”
He was joking, but…also…not.
That familiar telltale crackle of awareness was difficult to ignore, so I didn’t bother.
I nodded slowly. “Yeah, something like that.”
Mateo’s gaze fixed on my mouth. He cleared his throat and stepped toward the bowl of tomatoes.
Good. Food was easy.
This…whatever was going on with us—not so much.
“We can’t use these. They’re not sweet or ripe enough. You can substitute quality canned tomatoes. If you have the ingredients we can continue, otherwise you’re outta luck with the sugo.”
“What’s sugo?” I asked, opening the pantry.
“It’s Italian for juice or…sauce. My grandfather and my dad and uncle called it sugo.
Or you say gravy, marinara, or spaghetti sauce or pasta sauce.
It’s the simplest thing to make—very few ingredients.
Tomatoes, tomato paste, onion, garlic, bay leaf, salt, pepper, red pepper flakes, and a couple of secret spices Cavarettis never share. ”
“Understood. Found it.” I held up a twenty-eight-ounce can of whole tomatoes and a smaller can of tomato paste. “This too?”
“Yep. Paste thickens the sauce. It’s not mandatory. Some people like a thinner consistency.”
“What do you like?”
Mateo waggled his brows. “I always go for the thicker option.”
I snorted, humming along to a series of instructions I had no hope of following while Mateo literally took over my kitchen, spreading ingredients across the island and barking orders like a…
well, a chef. He knew what he was doing.
There was no consulting cookbooks or Internet experts.
I got the impression that the recipe he was sharing was one he’d memorized as a kid.
“When did you learn how to cook?” I asked, carefully dicing onions on a cutting board while Mateo crushed tomatoes in a bowl.
“I’ve been in a kitchen my whole life.” Mateo rinsed his hands, poured olive oil into the pan on the stove, and turned on the burner.
“I have early memories of standing on a stool next to my nonna, chopping basil or stirring marinara. Her kitchen was always busy…lots of family around. My house was quiet and—you’re gonna chop a finger off, Vilmer. Hold the onion like this.”
He gave a brief tutorial, handling the knife the way he used to handle a football. It was tempting to argue that I knew how to chop a damn onion, but I didn’t want to upset our fledgling truce. And every crumb of information Mateo shared made me curious to know more.
I scraped the onions into the pot per his instructions and stirred.
“I can’t imagine a quiet house. I have two sisters, Kate and Gwen—one older, one younger.
They shared a room, and I had my own. They’re still bitter about it.
They conveniently forget that they constantly hogged the bathroom.
I was always late because of them. Evil. ”
Mateo shot an unreadable glance at me. “Now we add the garlic, salt, and red pepper flakes. This is a variation…right here with the garlic. We don’t always add garlic. According to my mom, garlic and onion compete for flavor and too much garlic overpowers a dish. But that’s a taste thing.”
“I love garlic.” I set the beer bottles near the sink and reached for a bottle of Pinot Noir. “Wine?”
“Sure, thanks. Okay, add the tomatoes, a teaspoon of tomato paste, and…a bay leaf. Cover the pot and let it simmer. In twenty minutes, it’ll be ready.”
“Really? That seems too easy.” I poured the Pinot and handed him a glass.
Mateo swirled the burgundy liquid and shrugged. “I told you it’s simple. It may need more salt and pepper, and personally, I like basil and parsley too.”
“Do you use fresh or dried herbs?” I leaned casually against the counter and sipped my wine. And almost did a spit-take at Mateo’s deadpan stare. He didn’t crack a smile until I almost choked around a laugh, wiping tears from the corner of my eyes. “Asshole.”
“So I’ve been told,” he quipped. “You can use either, but I prefer fresh. Too many people buy dried herbs and never check the expiration dates. Then they put fifteen-year-old nutmeg in their gingerbread cookies and wonder why they taste weird.”
“That would be my mom. I helped her clean out her pantry when Dad was in the hospital for gallbladder surgery last summer. She had cans of soup from the last century.”
Mateo widened his eyes comically. “No.”
“Yep. There’s a strong possibility she’s been serving expired soup for years. Kate and Gwen think the fact that we survived meatloaf surprise and Mom’s chicken casserole with potato-chip toppings means we have cast-iron stomachs and are probably immune to most diseases.”
He chuckled as he lifted the lid on the pan to stir the sauce. “Not a great cook, eh?”