22. Evie
Evie
Book Club Bandits
BELLA
*photo attachment*
CINDY
THEY’RE SO CUTE
LAYLA
Emmy is comforting Bambi through the storm
my heart is melting
EVIE
that is the cutest thing I’ve ever seen. poor Bambi!
the storm is INSANE, I don’t blame her for being anxious. I am too
Dust?
My heart is pounding furiously, my hands clammy as I stir the pasta. The sound of the water running upstairs does nothing to calm my racing mind. It knew exactly what he was leaning in for and now it can’t settle.
Matteo was going to…
Shaking my head, I slap the thoughts away.
That’s ridiculous, Matteo would never kiss me.
Although he did suggest cooking my favorite pasta dish…
but no. Niceties do not equate a man kissing you, especially not one you’ve grown up with.
Perhaps the wind blew in dust and there really was a piece of lint in my hair.
Trying to distract myself, I begin looking for candles, searching high and low through all the cupboards but come up empty-handed. I try to think where they would store them, only for a laugh to burst from my chest.
What a stupid question. Why would my brother and Matteo have candles? In fact, the only candles I’ve seen in this apartment were the blue and white ones Matteo bought and placed in my room as decorations.
Darting my gaze to the simmering pot of pasta, I decide it’s safe enough to run upstairs to grab them. The last thing I want to do is try to search for them in the dark of the apartment if the power goes out.
Climbing the stairs, I turn right, rounding the hallway right as the bathroom door swings open and Matteo steps out in nothing but a towel.
My feet come to a screeching halt, and my eyes can’t leave the sight of his bare, bronze chest, water droplets making it glisten.
I’ve seen Matteo in various forms of undress over the years. It was hard not to. Men whip their shirts off all the time, not to mention he was over at my house more than he was at his growing up.
But this time…this time, it’s different.
Perhaps it was the supposed lint in my hair, or the way he wrapped his arm around me in the storm, or because of everything he’s done for me the past few weeks—the bedroom he made a safe space, the new running gear, the phone, cooking my favorite meals, making me coffee—but standing in the hallway, staring at Matteo, heat pools in my lower belly as a need for him fills my entire being that can’t be ignored.
“Are you trying to burn my place down?”
At the humor in his tone, I snap my eyes up and away from his naked body to find his forest-green eyes dancing with mischief.
“Candles,” I blurt out, my brain suddenly not knowing how to string together a sentence.
He’s naked under the towel, my mind unhelpfully points out.
As if he heard my thoughts, his lip slowly tips into a crooked grin. Stepping to the side, he waves his arm toward my bedroom.
I force my legs to move through the jelly-like sensation. I snatch the candles from my room and hightail it down the stairs, Matteo’s deep laughter following me the whole way.
What the fuck is happening?
Ten minutes later, I’ve managed to get my mind and body under control, just in time for Matteo to step into the kitchen, his aftershave smelling so divine I can’t help but take two inhales in quick succession.
“I see my kitchen is still intact.”
“I told you I wasn’t that bad.” At his look, I grin before adding, “Anymore.”
Moving around the kitchen like it’s second nature, Matteo pulls out heavy cream, parmesan, chives, chili, and paprika.
Patiently and gently, Matteo walks me through the steps.
Which heat level to simmer the pan at, how much oil and butter to pour in, when to fry the onion, the dosage of tomato paste, and how to build the spices.
I’ve never had anyone besides my father speak to me with such patience and kindness while teaching me something. Caleb was more protective and would rather bubble wrap me than teach me.
It’s refreshing.
Carter wouldn’t even try. He’d throw his hands in the air, quite literally groaning like a toddler when he wanted me to shut up and stop asking questions, and push me out of the way to take over.
Matteo hasn’t asked how I got better at cooking, and I’m glad for it.
Then I’d have to tell him that I can count on one hand the number of times Carter cooked for us in the two years we were together.
All the other times, the responsibility landed squarely on my shoulders.
I actually began to love cooking, no matter how average I was at it, but that took a turn when his personality and treatment of me seemingly changed overnight.
Suddenly, I could only cook foods he liked, regardless of what I wanted. Suddenly, it went from both of us grocery shopping to him scoffing and rolling his eyes when I suggested he help out with the shopping run when I was swamped with work.
There was a two-month period where I was working from seven in the morning until nine at night and he didn’t lift a finger. Two months of fourteen-hour days and yet I was still the only one cooking, cleaning, doing the laundry, washing dishes, and taking out the trash.
That was my life.
Labor, on all fronts.
Emotionally carrying his burdens that he forced upon me. Solely performing the household chores even though I felt like I was already working two jobs. Not to mention upholding the responsibility of the relationship on my shoulders as well.
I wish I had slapped him when I found him with Felicity.
It’s my one regret. That, and not breaking up with him the first time he laughed in my face after he hurt me.
Again, I’m not a violent person, but when someone takes advantage of you, belittles you, utterly destroys you by chipping away at you over two years, a lot of anger and injustice accumulates, and you end up wishing you had slapped the bastard.
The moment I found him sleeping with Felicity, I swore to myself then and there that I would never allow another person to ever treat me so horribly.
Matteo’s calming voice lulls me from the god-awful memories. “Has anyone shown you the best way to tell if pasta is ready?”
“No?”
“That a question or a statement, Dove?”
“Depends on how you test if it’s ready.”
Grinning, Matteo leans forward, using a spoon to scoop out a piece of pasta. Before I can blink, he turns, throwing it against the wall. The wet slapping sound accompanies my gasp.
“What the hell?”
Matteo cocks his head as he watches the pasta slowly slide down the wall. “Fuck, it must only work on spaghetti.”
I fall forward on a laugh, the sound loud and boisterous, uncontrollable. “Oh my god!” I say through a wheeze. “You did not just do that.”
As I’m bent over, something wet and sticky slaps my back. Gasping, I straighten to find Matteo, pasta in hand. “Did you just—”
A rigatoni smacks me square in the forehead.
My eyes widen comically before I hiss, “You are so dead.”
Matteo tries to flee the room. Quickly grabbing a bowl and spoon, I heave out nearly an entire bowl of noodles before chasing after him. His feet slap against the stairs and, rounding the corner, I rear back as another noodle hits me, this one in the chest.
Matteo’s laugh does something to my insides, warming my blood that all I can manage to do is squeal before following. Grabbing a fistful, my arm is back and ready to strike, and at the top of the stairs, I launch the pasta.
The rigatoni explodes along his chest and face.
My laugh is borderline manic. But when that competitive glint enters his eyes, my chuckle turns into a blood-curdling scream as I spin, running for my bedroom, only to remember there isn’t a lock on my door.
“Oh no you don’t,” he growls from somewhere behind me.
His hand brushes my waist and in a panic, I spin, throwing the entire bowl of pasta at him. Rigatoni cascades down his body, but despite his shock, he doesn’t stop coming for me.
Matteo wraps his muscular arms around my waist and takes me to the floor with him, the pasta that was once on his chest now falling over me. He throws his hand out, softening our fall, before he makes quick work, sliding his fingers under the hoodie I’m wearing and tickling me.
I’m screaming in earnest now.
“No!” Squirming, I try to break free from him. “Ahhh! Stop!”
Pulling back, both his hands land beside my head as he hovers above me, a glorious smile on his face.
One moment, I’m gazing up, our chests heaving, our smiles mirroring one another, and in the next, the lights go out, plunging us into pitch darkness.
Gasping, my hands instinctively reach out, clasping his hoodie.
“It’s okay, it’s just the storm,” Matteo whispers, his warm breath puffing across my lips.
The heat of his body warms mine and I find I’m selfishly pulling him closer by the grasp I have on his hoodie. My breathing grows heavier, more labored as Matteo doesn’t stop lowering himself until our chests brush.
It takes sheer willpower not to wiggle beneath him and moan. Every nerve ending in my body is on fire, my blood rushing in my ears.
I’ve never wanted to kiss someone as much as I do him.
I want it so badly I tip my head back and whisper, “Matteo?”
The lights choose that moment to flicker back on, revealing him an inch above my lips. His swallow is audible, his voice thick as he asks, “I thought you despised calling me by my first name.”
“Things change,” I breathe.
A noise whirls through the apartment, another thunderous boom sounding outside before the lights flicker and die once again.
“Patrick was right. The backup generator didn’t hold.”
“What a shame,” I whisper into the dark, my hand still clutching Matteo’s hoodie.
Why isn’t he kissing me?
The thought is sobering.
Forcing my hands to release their hold on him, I try to move from beneath him. “It’s getting late, I should—”
“Don’t.”
I pause at the plea in his tone.
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t push me away. Not again.”
A bucket of ice is thrown over my senses. He’s talking about the year he went away to college, but still, I whisper, “I’m not sure what you’re talking about.”
“Yes, you do,” he drawls. “But fine, we can pretend you suddenly have amnesia.” He blows out a heavy breath, his forehead dropping to mine. I close my eyes, savoring the feel of him above me, the feel of his skin against mine, his warmth cascading over me.
“At least eat with me?” he asks, and he sounds so vulnerable that I can’t deny him.
“Okay.”
“Okay,” he breathes out.
The warmth of his skin leaves me, making a shiver of ice and regret snake down my spine. I at least have the mind to stop myself from begging him to come back.
A warm calloused hand finds mine, Matteo helping me stand and leading us slowly back down to the kitchen. Despite me not being able to see two inches from my face, Matteo walks the halls and stairs as if he’s wearing night vision goggles.
“Thank God we finished cooking before the power went out. I’m starved.”
Breathing easily at the safe topic, I leap for some normalcy between us.
“Looks like those candles you bought me are going to come in handy.”
We fall back into something familiar, but it’s different. There’s a charge that won’t fade, a longing that won’t be ignored.
And as Matteo uses his phone’s flashlight to serve two bowls of pasta and as I light candles around the coffee table, I realize that, with a sudden jarring thought, that was the first time a man has hovered above me in the dark and it didn’t send me into a panic attack.