Chapter 13
Giant raindrops smack the windshield as we head out of town, wipers working overtime.
“What if she doesn’t like me?” Beckett asks, knee jackhammering, fingers drumming against his thigh.
“She’s gonna love you,” I say.
He huffs. “Even if I look like I belong in a rock band?” He runs his hands down his all-black outfit—ripped jeans, fitted tee, black eyeliner sharp as sin.
“Especially because you look like you’re in a rock band.”
Beckett chuckles, and I notice the tension in his shoulders ease, but his leg still goes as we head to my Aunt Sofia’s.
Before I picked him up, he asked me what he should wear, and I said he needed to just be himself.
It made me happy when I picked him up to see him dressed in his ripped black jeans and a black T-shirt.
Typical Beckett attire. What I didn’t expect to see was the black eyeliner.
I’ve only seen him wear it a few times when the group has gone out to the club.
I’m not upset by it, far from it. I want Aunt Sofia to see him for who he truly is, not who he pretends to be.
By the time we turn onto Sofia’s street, I can feel the nerves winding him back up. Her small one-story house sits in its usual quiet corner, warm light glowing in the front windows like it’s been waiting just for us.
I reach across the console, thread my fingers through his, and squeeze. “She’s going to love you,” I repeat.
He blows out a breath, staring at the house.
Aunt Sofia has lived in the same house for as long as I’ve known she exists, in a quiet neighborhood about an hour from Camden.
“Come on,” I say, getting out and rounding the hood, coming to a stop next to the passenger-side door.
I give a little chuckle as I open the door. “Let’s go, scaredy-cat. She’s harmless. Mostly.”
He slides out, and I catch his hand as we head up the walk.
I don’t even get to knock.
“Domenico, my sweet boy!” The door flies open, and there she is—Aunt Sofia, in black leggings, flowy top, big earrings, bangles chiming as she pulls me into a hug that knocks the air out of me.
Behind her, Beckett raises one judgmental eyebrow and mouths, “Domenico?”
“Shut it,” I mutter.
“Is that any way to talk to your guest?” She turns to Beckett. “You must be the boyfriend I’ve heard all about.”
I freeze. Narrow my eyes. I did not say boyfriend. I said “I’m seeing someone.”
Beckett goes full deer in headlights.
Sofia just rolls her eyes. “Please. Come in, both of you. Before the Nosy Nellies start peeking. One look at you two and they’ll say I’m running a brothel again. You throw one sex party, and suddenly everyone is butt-hurt. Pun intended.”
Beckett snorts a laugh. I groan. “Aunt Sofia.”
Whatever tension Beckett had melts straight into mischief. The shit-eating grin he sends me says I am never living this down.
I smile back, deciding I like this look better than the one a few minutes ago, even if I’m about to take the brunt of whatever he has up his sleeve.
“So,” she says, giving him an appraising once-over. “I hear you’re a very talented chef.”
“Naw,” he says. “Not as good as you, I hear. Domenico”—he shoots me a look over his shoulder—“can’t stop raving about your cooking.”
I glare. It’s ineffective.
We move into the kitchen, and the hit of garlic, tomato, and basil is like getting hugged a second time.
“I do okay. Now, come. Dom tells me you’re writing a cookbook, si?” She taps two stools at her kitchen island. “Sit.”
“Yeah,” Beckett says, glancing at me with a soft look that does something stupid to my chest. “Well… Dom had the idea.”
She waves that away. “Yes, yes, handsome and occasionally useful. But can he cook? No.”
“Well, he did make me spaghetti the other night,” Beckett says, lips twitching.
She stops her bustling. “Did he now?”
Beckett smirks, and I give him one last narrow-eyed warning.
“Sure did,” he continues. “It was delicious. Who knew something out of a—”
“Ah, ah, ah,” she cuts in, eyes locked on me. “Domenico. Tell me you did not.”
Next thing I know, she’s at my side and tugging my ear. “How could you? And for a man you’re trying to impress?” She slaps me on the shoulder. “It’s true what they say. The way to a man’s heart is through his stomach. Well, and his dick.”
“Aunt Sofia!”
“What? I only speak truths.”
Beckett loses it, trying to cover with a cough. “In his defense, I did show up unannounced.”
“And any good Italian,” she says, pointing a spoon at me. “Keeps sauce in the freezer. Remind me to send some home with you.” Then to Beckett, softening. “Now, caro, will you help me cook tonight?”
His eyes bug wide. “I wouldn’t want to get in the way.”
“Don’t be silly,” she tsks. “You come cook with me.”
The way she says caro and his whole face lights up… yeah, that gets me. I sit back for a second and just take it in—her bustling, him grinning, this kitchen that let me become myself when nowhere else felt safe. This place is and always will be home, even if it’s not the home I started with.
When I first left home to come stay with Aunt Sofia, we spent many nights sitting around this island talking. She gave me a place to find out who I was. A place I could come to terms with my sexuality on my own and not under the hateful eye of my father.
I don’t know who I would be today if it weren’t for her.
“I thought we’d make an old family recipe,” she says. “Tuscan chicken.”
I groan.
Beckett side-eyes me. “What?”
“It’s… also referred to as Marry Me Chicken,” I confess.
His smile turns downright feral. “Oh, Dom. Don’t you think it’s a little soon? I mean, blow jobs are one thing, but you haven’t even taken me out on a date?”
Aunt Sofia barks out a laugh. “Ohh, I like him.”
I shake my head, hoping to suppress my grin. Fail. I’m doing a lot of failing in that department tonight.
Aunt Sofia glides her hand across my shoulders as she makes her way to the fridge.
“Okay, let’s get started.” She hands Beckett a package of chicken.
“I’ll get the water boiling while you cut the chicken so we can get it seasoned and let it marinate while we make the noodles, then we’ll work on the sauce. ”
Before she fills a pan with water and places it on the stove, she hands Beckett an apron. “Wear this one… maybe you’ll get lucky.”
He slips it over his head, looks down, and cackles. “‘Kiss the Cook… it’s the secret ingredient.’” He holds the hem. “I mean, I am hoping.”
“If not,” he adds casually. “I’ll beg for an invitation to your next sex party.”
My lips curl with a growl. He knows what reaction he’ll get out of me.
At the same time, the urge to be closer to him builds.
Getting up from my stool, I take the cutting board from behind the sink and grab a knife while Beckett opens the package of meat.
I purposely press up against him when I place the board in front of him, wanting to feel his body heat.
“Mine.” I squeeze his hips. “Always mine.”
“Yes, sir,” he whispers, just for me.
Before I combust, Sofia clears her throat. “What do you think?” she asks. “The girls got it for my birthday.”
We both turn to see Aunt Sofia smooth out her apron. It reads, “Careful… I might toss your salad.” I groan, burying my forehead against Beckett’s shoulder blades, and he wheezes out a laugh. “I love her.”
“Same,” I say, kissing his temple on my way back to my stool. “I love it!”
For the next hour, I get my favorite view in the world: Aunt Sofia in her tiny kingdom, teaching Beckett the family recipe for that ridiculous Marry Me Chicken. He listens and asks questions with genuine interest, moving like he belongs here.
Watching them, something settles in me. I’ve been feeling that a lot lately, small shifts in what I thought my life was going to be. And the scene before me is another shift in my heart.
“Thank you, that tasted crazy good. Ugh, and the homemade pasta… cooked perfectly. I get how hard that is.”
She scoffs. “Thank you, but give yourself some credit. The noodles were all you. And you said you don’t know how to roll out noodles.”
“To be fair, I said I wasn’t very good at it.”
She looks over at me. “I think you are gonna have your hands full with this one.”
“Tell me about it,” I agree.
“Are you sure I can use your recipe in my cookbook?”
“Of course, cario. Marry Me Chicken is meant to be shared with lovers from all walks of life,” she says, getting up to clear plates.
“Sit,” I say. “You two cooked, so the least I can do is the dishes. And one of these days, Aunt Sofia, I’m gonna buy you a dishwasher.”
She sits back down. “Blasphemy. Why would I want that when I have two perfectly capable hands and fine china?”
I’d say I have my hands full with both of them.
“Oh, Domenico, before I forget, there’s mail for you on the counter next to the coffeemaker.”
There’s only one piece of mail that gets delivered here.
I walk over to the envelope sitting on the counter, and I steel myself before picking it up. There, stamped in red across it, is New York State Penitentiary. Bile starts to rise in my throat, threatening the contents of my stomach.
“Excuse me.”