20. Chapter Damian
S tanding in the elevator with Aria has my hands tingling with the need to touch her. There’s only one thought I have in my brain right now: her lips on mine.
Did I use the cooking class as an excuse to spend time with her outside of work? Maybe. I did say I was going to teach her, and I’m a man of my word.
Do I have other motives? I guess I’ll find out. I just know that I haven’t been able to stop thinking about her since the kiss and that vulnerable moment between us that left so much up in the air.
It pissed me off that we had a one five second conversation at Enzo’s and just moved on like nothing happened. Because something did happen. We both felt it. I’m not being delusional .
I’m a man of actions, not words. So I’ll just have to show her that I’m here for her; even if the uncertainty is eating me alive. At the end of the day, the need to care for her and be with her outweighs the uncertainty.
As we walk into her apartment, she runs to one of her rooms, which I take as an opportunity to look around. This is exactly how I expected her apartment to look. Full of colors and paintings hanging all around, which makes sense. She’s a curator, so I’m sure she loves collecting things for herself. Taking a closer look, a particular painting catches my attention.
This painting shows a woman underwater. You can’t really see her face, but you know it’s a woman because of her body shape and the fact that she’s only wearing underwear. She’s not exactly drowning, but the colors, which are mostly muted tones, express some sort of… overwhelm. Her hands hang like she is letting go and giving up on trying to come out of the water, but she’s not scared. She’s just… done.
I know the feeling all too well.
It’s a beautiful fucking painting, not something I’ve seen in a while. A simple painting that with the correct tones can express so, so much. I look around the painting trying to see the initials, but I don’t find any.
Weird.
She walks out of the mysterious room, locks it and walks to the open kitchen, me following after her .
“Okay, what did you bring?” she asks.
I place the groceries on her counter, then take the items out of the bag.
She grabs one of the boxes. “Pasta, really? I can make that. Give me more credit than that.” She rolls her eyes.
I tsk as I take out the other ingredients. “We’re making a vodka sauce from scratch, tastes a million times better, and it’s easy to make.”
Aria’s eyes brim with excitement. “Hell yes, I fucking love vodka sauce. I usually buy canned ones, though. Pretty good.”
Oh my. “I miei antenati si saranno rivoltando nelle tombe mentre noi parliamo.”
She tilts her head, confused. “I have no idea what you just said, I just know it sounded Italian.”
I let out a soft laugh before translating, “My ancestors are rolling in their graves as we speak.”
“Oh, right,” she laughs. “Because you’re Italian. Duh. I knew that.”
“Sì.” Yes .
“Since I know a bit of Spanish, and I think the languages are similar, I’m going to assume you said yes. It’s a shame I don’t know the language, because I enjoy going to Italy very much.”
“Well, yeah. The artistry world in Italy is one of the best, even though people debate whether it's actually the UK.”
She shakes her head. “I agree with you. The culture and how preserved things are in Italy is unmatched.”
“Yeah, plus, you know, Italians, we’re as sexy as they come,” I joke with a playful wink.
She picks up the box of pasta and throws it at me as she murmurs something along the lines of jerk and you wish .
I laugh, gathering all the ingredients and taking out an apron from one of the bags and putting it on.
She starts laughing, or more like… wheezing, really. “You brought an apron? ” She snorts in between laughs, making me laugh now. “Okay, Martha Stewart. I see you.”
The joke’s on her, because I brought something for her as well. As I take out said item with a grin plastered all over my face, I walk toward her.
She takes a few steps back. “No! I am not putting that on,” she says with a shriek.
My shoulders shake as I laugh. “You have to. It’s the rule.”
“Who says!?” she yells.
“I do.” I keep laughing as I plaster the chef hat on top of her head.
She takes out her phone to take a look. “I look ridiculous.”
I clear my throat as I pick up the pasta box that fell on the floor. “You could never. You look beautiful.”
Placing the box on the counter, I steal a glance at her. Her shoulders are stiff and her cheeks are colored with that pretty soft scarlet all over. I swiftly grab her phone and before she has a moment to react I snap a picture of her. She gasps in disbelief as she tries to grab her phone, but I am way taller than her, so it’s easy to keep it out of her reach. I send the picture to myself for keepsake, then give her the phone back.
“You better delete that picture!” she demands, pointing one finger at me.
“ Nope. Now , enough complaining, let’s cook,” I say as I pat her chef hat.
She puffs, but brings out the pots and pans I ask her for, and we get started on the sauce right away. She’s a lousy learner, so I’m definitely bringing something more challenging next time just to mess with her.
Next time? Not sure what is wrong with me, but spending time with her outside of work is turning out to be nice and a change of pace. A smile escapes me as she drops some tomato paste in the pan and watches it like a hawk, so it turns out the right color as I instructed when I made the sauce on my own so she could take her own notes and ask any questions. It’s her turn this time around, and she keeps insisting that she can do it without any guidance. She scrunches her nose in a cute way every time she’s confused, then shrugs and continues to dump the ingredients.
“Pretty sure that was a little too much salt,” I point out.
“Well, I like salty things.”
I laugh. “You can never accept when you’re wrong, can you?”
She flips me off as she keeps throwing the ingredients and scrunching her face. It’s fucking hilarious.
My heart quickens at the sight of her, so beautiful and carefree. Dare I say she looks happy, and knowing I was able to get a smile out of her and help her have fun makes me really fucking happy too. I haven’t felt this happy and relaxed in, well, ever. This is a moment I want to burn into my memory, preserve it like a precious piece of gold. No amount of money or success can compare to what making her happy feels like.
When we’re finally done, we exchange plates as we sit down to eat. By looking at the plate, it looks promising, but I’m ninety-nine percent sure she put in way too much salt, so I’m a little nervous.
She takes a huge bite out of hers and lets out an appreciative groan. “Damn you, Damian Romano. With your good looks and amazing cooking.” She closes her eyes as she takes another huge bite.
“Good looks, huh?” I taunt.
She puffs. “Sue me, Romano. You know you’re good looking. You’re literally cataloged as one of the top bachelors in Chicago.”
I thin my lips, trying to not laugh. Only if she knew that even though I’m considered one of the top in the windy city—in both business and looks—I have insecurities that I’m afraid to admit out loud. Being a self-made billionaire is a blessing and a curse, all at the same time. Yes, I’m grateful I was able to make a name for myself and live the life everyone dreams of but very few get. On the other side of the coin, though… it's lonely. You can’t tell what’s real or fake. Which people genuinely want to get to know me and become a part of my life? And which people are simply following me for the name, fame, and money? I put on this tough exterior because I don’t want people to take advantage of me, but also, being an asshole has taken me to new levels. The line has blurred over the years, and I don’t know where I stand anymore.
“Well, it's your turn to try. Chop, chop.” She claps excitedly.
I shake my head with a laugh as I grab the fork, taking a generous bite. I try to contain my cough as I start chewing. I push through, though, because her eyes are brimming with excitement, waiting to hear my opinion.
Yup. This is way too fucking salty.
But the way she looks at me, grinning ear to ear, her eyes dancing around nervously and moving her hands excitedly, I will eat anything she makes. I’ll make anything look fucking edible if it means seeing her this happy.
As I finish chewing and swallowing my food, I drink some water, then say, “Definitely passed. It’s good.”
“Really?” she asks excitedly as she grabs her own fork and says, “Let me try! ”
Before she can get to my plate, I move it quickly, taking a few huge bites back to back, not letting her.
She gasps. “That’s so rude! I wanted to try it!”
Just trying to be a gentleman and protect your health.
I shrug as I take the last bite. Man, this is salty as fuck. I need water. I cough, trying not to choke with all the food I have in my mouth.
“Next time,” I say with a full mouth, trying not to twitch my eye with how salty it is.
Yeah, next time I have to make sure she doesn’t use half the bag of salt. I’ll die of hypertension if all her foods are this salty.
At least you’d die as a happy man.
She gets up and hits me in the shoulder as she grabs the plates. I plaster a grin on my face, noticing that she didn’t complain about the next time, and fuck if that doesn’t give me just a tiny bit of hope. I don’t care if I’m reading too much into it, but it’s at least something. I can work with this. She walks to the sink and turns on the water, putting gloves on to do the dishes.
I take the gloves from her and put them on. “I’ll wash, you dry, okay?”
“Do you even know how to wash dishes?” she jokes, raising an eyebrow.
I flick her forehead softly. “You think you’re so funny? Heads up, you’re not.”
“I’m a hoot, don’t you forget it.” She flips her hair dramatically.
I shake my head, doing my best to contain my laugh. Our dynamic is, well… weird, but it works. The constant bickering is what we know best, and it’s how we get along.
But something has shifted between us, and call me crazy, but I can tell she feels it too. Yeah, we still joke, but it’s charged with something different. Lighter. Flirtier .
As we work in silence, our hands touch a couple of times as I hand her the new dishes to dry. And even though I have gloves on, that doesn’t stop the zing of electricity that runs from the top of my fingers all the way to my toes every time we touch.
And fuck, is it addicting.
“Hey, can I ask you for a favor?” she asks, pulling me out of my thoughts.
“Sure, what’s up?”
She fidgets her fingers, trying to come up with the question. “Can you like, not mention anything to Isabella about the panic attack I had during the work trip?”
I look at those beautiful hazel eyes that right now are filled with worry. The sting in my chest hurts at the sight of her. She looks terrified, and I hate that. I want nothing but to make her feel safe around me.
Taking off the gloves and putting them on the counter, I place my hand on her warm cheek. “Of course. You didn’t have to ask me. I wasn’t planning to. Your secret is safe with me.”
Her head rests on my palm as she closes her eyes and sighs. “Thank you.” She gulps. “Your secret is safe with me too, you know?” she whispers.
With my thumb, I caress her soft skin as I watch her intently. There are so many things I want to say to her right now.
I know. I trust you with my life.
You're the quiet in my loud.
In the storm of my life, you’re the serenity that anchors me.
Instead, I just nod.
The air fills with a thick tension. She’s being vulnerable with me, again. Makes me feel good; accomplished. I’ve got the feeling she hates being open in front of people, so the fact that she’s doing it with me gives me another sliver of hope.
Her eyes open softly and she looks up, locking her gaze on me. And fuck , I could get lost in those deep hazel eyes—scratch that—I already do. And her lips, that for the first time don’t have her usual inviting red, but I dare say they’ve never looked more enticing than this moment in their natural soft, plush pink color.
Her eyes, though, are my kryptonite. “Those hazel eyes of yours, like pools of liquid amber. I could get lost in them forever,” I confess .
Her glassy eyes snap to mine in shock at my confession. She starts roaming her gaze all over my face. I do the same, because honestly, I don’t tire of it. Her hand lifts up softly, her delicate fingers interlacing with my hair. While I usually have my hair brushed, not a hair out of place, today I opted for a natural look, letting my lazy curls roam free and do their thing.
“Never seen your hair like this. I like it,” she compliments.
I brush my thumb over her lips and whisper, “And I’ve never seen your lips without their usual red. They’re lovely.” I smile lazily.
I could compliment every inch of her. Every freckle; every strand of hair; every curve. She’s perfect. I wish nothing but for time to stay still, to have the opportunity to stay here in this moment; forever. She, with her fiery self, somehow infiltrated my life and has become the light that deep down I wished for, but never thought I could find.