Chapter 27
Chapter Twenty Seven
Antonio
I sell the idea to her as a cooking lesson because I need her mind anywhere but on that inbox.
Bellandi. Payloads. Cameras. Microphones. Her voice going thin and panicked while I held her against me and helped her breathe through her panic attack.
I stepped on a couple of her rules.
I told myself it didn’t count.
It was a panic attack. It was triage. It was necessary.
But my body doesn’t care about technicalities. My body remembers exactly what she feels like with her back against my chest, the way she went still when my mouth brushed her hair.
So I did what I always do when I’m cornered by something I can’t control.
I made a plan.
After I took care of the email, I stood back up and pretended like it was any other night.
“First cooking lesson,” I said casually. “Tonight.”
Then I showered fast—too fast, because if I lingered in there, I’d end up with my hand around my cock thinking about how she felt in my arms, and the heat of her eyes when she watched me on the floor earlier.
The glute bridges.
Yeah. I did those on purpose.
I felt her eyes drift. I felt it the way you feel a spotlight heat your skin. And I wanted her to crack. I wanted her to break her own rules. I don’t mind being the bad guy, but I made her a promise that I wouldn’t be the one to break them.
So I decided to tempt her into breaking them. I wanted her to straddle my hips, slide her hand into my pants, and whisper something reckless in my ear so we could throw her list of rules straight into the trash and fuck right there on the floor until we were out of breath and boneless.
And I was doing pretty well, too.
Until that damn email.
Now I’m in her kitchen with my sleeves pushed up and the groceries I had delivered earlier in the week for this exact lesson lined up on the counter.
She stands on the other side of the island, hair still damp from her shower, lounge clothes soft and comfortable—and so easy to just slide off in order to reach soft skin.
She’s trying to look calm, but she isn’t fooling me. I put both laptops away so she’s not reminded, but I can still feel her thinking about the email.
I’m determined to get her mind off of it and get her relaxed. Whatever it takes.
“Okay,” I say, keeping my voice light. “We’re doing something simple. No fancy nonsense. You’re going to learn three things: how to salt water, how not to burn garlic, and how to taste your food.”
A tiny, reluctant huff of laughter escapes her. It’s not much, but it loosens something in the room.
Good.
“I think I have that last one down.”
“Ah-ah.” I wag my finger. “I will be the judge of that.”
I set out what I bought: garlic, a bunch of parsley, lemon, good olive oil, a small container of red pepper flakes, sea salt, and as much as it pains me, store-bought pasta. We’ll save fresh pasta for another lesson.
“Spaghetti aglio e olio,” I say, presenting the ingredients with a flourish. “Garlic and oil. It’s the dish you make when you’ve got nothing but basics, but you still want something delicious and comforting.”
She watches my hands as I line things up. “That’s… it?”
“That’s all you’ll be cooking anyway,” I say as I go into the fridge and pull out the remaining ingredients. “I’ll be doing some shrimp and broccolini to go with it. Because if I just eat pasta, I’ll need four plates of it.”
“And,” I say, holding up my finger again before she can speak, “before you insult it, this is the kind of ‘it’ that tells me whether you can follow direction.”
Her eyes narrow. “Are we cooking or are you interviewing me?”
“Yes,” I say, deadpan.
She smiles. “Very well, Chef. What first?”
I point to the pot. “Fill it. Water. Flames on high.”
She moves, doing what I told her, and the way her hips shift in those lounge pants is a special kind of torture. I keep my gaze on the pot because I’m really starting to doubt my restraint.
“Salt,” I say.
She reaches for the salt shaker.
“No,” I correct immediately. “Sea salt. Handful.”
She freezes, glancing at me like I’ve suggested something illegal. “A handful.”
“A handful,” I repeat. “The water should taste like the sea.”
Her mouth tilts. “That seems excessive.”
I look at her, and for a second, my brain wants to say something about tasting other things. About how I know exactly what she tastes like, and I could describe it in detail.
I don’t. I keep it clean.
For now.
“Yes,” I say. “Pasta water should be seasoned. It’s the only time you’re seasoning the pasta itself.”
“Okay,” she says and turns to grab the tub of salt on the counter.
She tips salt into her palm with exaggerated caution.
“More,” I say. “Don’t be so delicate with it.”
She gives me a look and adds more.
“Good,” I tell her. “Throw it in. Now—garlic.”
I slide a cutting board toward her and set down garlic cloves.
She stares at them like they’re a problem she can’t solve.
“I don’t cook, remember?” she reminds me, defensive.
“This isn’t cooking,” I say. “This is cutting.”
She picks up the knife.
I stop her with a simple, “Hold it properly.”
Her eyes flick up. “I am.”
“No,” I say, stepping around the island so I’m beside her—just close enough to demonstrate but no closer. “Your grip is cautious, scared.”
“I’m not scared,” she snaps automatically.
“Then don’t hold it like it’s going to bite you,” I say.
Her lips part, like she’s about to throw something sharp back at me. Like the knife.
And then her gaze drops—my forearms, my hands, the way the shirt clings slightly from the shower steam that never fully left my skin.
I feel it.
That pull between us. That magnetic line that’s been vibrating between us.
I keep my hands to myself, because… rules. Because her rules.
“Watch,” I say, and take the knife from her. I demonstrate on one clove, quick and precise. “Flat of the knife. Smash. Peel. Then slice thin.”
I set the knife down when I’m done and look at her expectantly.
She swallows and copies me. The clove pops under the blade.
“See?” I say. “It didn’t kill you.”
“I didn’t say it would.”
“You acted like it,” I say, and her mouth twitches. Before she can slice, I say, “No, hold the knife like this.”
Using my hand, I direct her to hold it correctly. “Pinch right here, the base, with your thumb and index. Good. Now wrap the rest of your fingers around the handle. This way, you have better control. Good. Like that. Now try.”
When she slices, the pieces are uneven.
“Not terrible,” I say.
“That’s not a compliment.”
“It is from me,” I reply.
She looks amused, but she looks back at the board and continues.
I watch while I take the shrimp out and set them on paper towels, then pat them dry.
“Why are you doing that?” she asks.
“Because wet shrimp don’t sear,” I say. “They steam. Dry equals browning. Browning equals flavor.”
By the time she’s done cutting the rest of the garlic, the water is boiling.
“Pasta,” I say. “In. And stir so it doesn’t stick.”
She dumps it in and stirs.
“Timer,” I tell her. “We cook it al dente.”
She glances at the box. “It says ten minutes.”
“We start tasting at eight,” I say.
She blinks. “Tasting?”
“Yes,” I say. “Food isn’t an exact science, Elsa.”
I quickly season the shrimp with salt, pepper, and a pinch of red pepper flakes. I pull the broccolini out and show them to her.
“I’m going to cook these in two parts,” I tell her. “First, I’ll blanch them in the pasta water, then I’ll sear them fast in a pan. But that’ll come later. First…”
I set a pan on the stove. “Oil.”
I pour a generous amount and watch it pool, shimmering.
While it’s warming, I cut the ends of the broccolini off, then turn back to Elsa.
“Now, the garlic goes in before the oil gets hot,” I say. “We’re infusing. Not burning.”
She slides the sliced garlic into the oil. It starts to sizzle gently.
“Now you watch,” I tell her. “The moment it turns golden, we’re done. If it goes brown, you start over.”
Her mouth tightens. “That’s dramatic.”
“Garlic is very dramatic, yes,” I say. “But she’s delicious, so she’s allowed to be.”
She laughs and looks at me.
“She?”
“Oh yes,” I say. “The most delectable things are always ‘she’.”
Her cheeks redden, and she quickly looks back at the pan.
Silence sits heavily between us, nearly palpable. The garlic turns golden, saving us both.
I force my focus to the pan because if I don’t, I’m going to do something stupid.
“Pepper flakes,” I say, and my voice is rougher than it should be for a cooking lesson. “A pinch.”
She sprinkles them in with a hand that isn’t quite steady.
“Turn down the flames and chop the parsley,” I add.
She does, faster now, a little more confident.
“Add it,” I say, then the timer on the pasta goes off. “Now taste the pasta.”
I reserve a mug of pasta water while she does.
She pulls one strand out, blows on it, and bites. “It’s still hard.”
“It’s close,” I correct, and the corner of my mouth lifts. “But it needs two more minutes. Which is exactly when this broccolini needs to go in.”
I scoop the broccolini from the counter and drop it into the boiling pasta water. Bright green blooms almost immediately.
“That’s all it needs in here,” I say. “We’re not killing it.”
I set a second skillet on the stove and heat it until it’s properly hot for a good sear.
“This part is mine,” I tell her, and I feel her relief in the fact that she doesn’t have to do it.
I add a thin slick of oil, then lay the shrimp in one by one. They hit the pan with a hard sizzle.
“Don’t touch them,” I say. “Or you won’t get a good sear.”
I flip them after a minute, note the pink center, browned edges, then pull them off before they go rubbery.
“Okay,” I say, setting them aside. “Now the broccolini, then you can drain the pasta.”
I pull the broccolini out with tongs, and she takes the pot to the sink.
“Slowly or it will splash at you,” I tell her as I slide the broccolini into the hot skillet with a little oil, salt, and a squeeze of lemon.
I toss it once, twice, just to get a little char at the tips.
“The pasta goes into your skillet.” I watch carefully as she tosses it in. I throw in a splash of the starchy water and hand her the spoon so she can stir.
“Now taste,” I say.
I watch her lips as she takes a bite, her throat as she swallows.
I watch the concentration on her face soften into surprise. “It’s good.”
And I think, wildly, dangerously: I could live like this. Every night. With Elsa, in the kitchen, cooking together.
“What now?” she asks.
“Does it need anything?” I ask.
Her brows draw together. “I’m not sure. I’ve never had this.”
“Use your instincts,” I say. “What do they tell you?”
She takes another bite, concentrates on it.
“Maybe… something fresh?” She makes a face at herself. “I don’t know what that means. Ignore me. You taste it.”
I grin. “No, that’s exactly right.”
I hold up the lemon before cutting it into quarters.
“We’re going to toss the shrimp in the pasta quickly.” I speak as I do it. “Then a squeeze of lemon.”
“Okay,” she says. “Now what?”
“Now,” I say, sliding the pan off the heat. “We eat.”
And when she turns toward the cabinet, I let myself watch her ass as she stretches up for some plates. If I’m going to be this good, I deserve some kind of reward, don’t I?