Chapter 25
The rich scent of garlic and veggie sauce loaded with meat mixed in the air with the soft sounds of Louis Armstrong singing “La Vie En Rose” like a magical transportation device that erased the Chicago skyline in favor of my memories of Europe. Our instructor, a boisterous middle aged white man with a generous belly and not quite enough neck, walked around grinning–first at the stations and then at his eager students. He insisted we call him Gio, although a handful of us playfully insisted on calling him ‘Chef.’ A subtle bubbling sound drew Broderick’s attention, and he leaned over to stir the sauce, inhaling deeply.
“God, I’m salivating,” he breathed happily.
“It’s not my fault this time.”
“For once,” he muttered, bringing the wood spoon, which was loaded with Bolognese sauce, up to his nose. I snickered, using the back of my wrist to wipe stray strands of hair away from my eyes. He hadn’t been spectacularly confident, but there had been something disproportionately sexy about watching him chop all the veggies during prep. Broderick had this way of looking suave, even while he compulsively re-checked our instructions, nervously watching Gio in his rotation around the room, like we’d retroactively fail school if he missed a step. It was disconcertingly endearing.
“Is perfect!” Gio exclaimed excitedly across the room as he peered over the shoulder of a rather anxious looking pair of Korean women that had to be sisters judging by their matching looks and laughter. His accent was as thick as the scent of simmering veggies and herbs.
“How’s it coming, Pix?” Broderick questioned as he slid back to my side, pinching more semolina and dusting the wood board generously as I portioned out a fresh ball of dough. A stray plume drifted toward my apron, and I giggled as he muttered a curse under his breath.
“Easy, Professor, you’re getting flour everywhere.”
“Beg your pardon–I am clearly masterful at flour distribution.” Even as he said it, he lost a battle with a laugh. Honestly, I was more than a little surprised when he announced our plan for the evening. Broderick generally stuck to activities he had practiced in, not a big fan of trying something new and failing in front of an audience. Which meant this stretch outside of his comfort zone was solely for me.
“My Renaissance man,” I said, feigning a swoon as I leaned back into his chest. He moved around my body, one dusted hand landing on my waist on top of the red apron, lips finding my neck on the opposite side.
“My muse,” he whispered huskily, his voice coasting over my skin as sweetly as his possessive hold on my hip. He swiped up the remaining dough, and wrapped it in the plastic film, like Gio had shown us. Evidently, keeping the dough from drying out was more than a little crucial. Leave it to me to shoot straight for the fun part and Broderick to look after the details.
“Thanks,” I muttered, feeling a little silly for forgetting.
“Of course. Nice work on the Tagliatelle.” He wrapped me back up, resting his chin on my shoulder as I worked the dough with the rolling pin. We stayed like that for a beat, Broderick guiding me through a subtle little sway with a hand on my belly and his hips against my ass as Etta James’ A Sunday Kind of Love took over on the understated speakers. A happy little hummingbird fluttered in my chest where my pesky heart had long since liquified. Wordlessly, he brought a hand around to hold the edge of our rolled dough when it came time to wrap the sheet around the rolling pin. Together, we mimicked the soft little rock with the pin that Gio had shown the class, and I tried not to break skin as I chewed on my lip nervously. It’s not that I was a poor cook, but something as intricate as authentic Italian pasta was well outside my wheelhouse as well.
“Okay, so now we flip it, right?” I leaned toward him, smiling as the heat of his breath ghosted over my lips.
“Right,” he affirmed. I gingerly unrolled the dough, smiling when Broderick lifted his hands out of my way and dusted the board with flour again when I peeled our sheet from the wood surface. I laid it back down, bringing the rolling pin back to continue the motions we’d learned. Before I knew it, Gio was peering over my opposite shoulder, his cheeks rosy enough they belonged on The Night Before Christmas illustration of St. Nick.
“Get your hands on it,” he encouraged in that thick Italian lilt. “Not too thin, not too thick. You gotta feel it.”
Broderick subtly nipped at my earlobe, and when Gio spun toward our neighbor he muttered, “Dying to feel something,” but obediently brought his hands down to test the dough with me, ensuring all the edges were even.
“It doesn’t have to be a perfect circle. Is alright if some are small and some are bigger,” Gio encouraged as he walked down the aisle between stations in his white apron and light blue button-up shirt with his hands braced behind his back.
“That’s not what she said,” I mused, and Broderick choked on a laugh, resting his forehead on my shoulder to keep from losing it. “Glad you enjoy my ridiculous humor.”
“Some things never change.”
“Thank God for that.” Despite the shake of laughter through his chest, we completed the pasta rolling process together in a wordless dance of movement, interspersed with my nervous giggles. Simultaneously canting our heads, we both stared down at the big blonde blob, and I wondered if he was also wondering if we could do anything else or if we’d completed the step.
From the corner of his mouth, Broderick hissed, “I think we did it?”
Laughing, I agreed. “I think we did.”
It was right about then that Gio boomed over the chatter and vocals to remind us of that ultimate test. “Molto bene! You should be about done and remember to hold it up.” He peeled his own example off the front station and held it to the light, opposite hand wiggling behind it and casting shadows through the sheet of dough. “See my hand through it?”
Broderick carefully did the same thing, an adorable trace of pride in his tone as he said, “Not too bad for a couple of amateurs, huh?”
“Speak for yourself, Professor,” I said, shrugging. “I think we can give Gio’s Nona a run for her money.”
His eyes flicked to mine, equal parts nerves and humor as he muttered, “I usually think your confidence is ungodly sexy, but let’s not get ourselves beaten with a cannolo.”
“Gio left the gun behind?” I said, grinning ear-to-ear that he’d just made a freaking Godfather reference in our Italian class.
“Exactly,” he said, smirking. “Besides, I wanted to see you blow it.” Logic said that he was referencing Gio’s other test to see if the dough was ready to be cut—evidently dough at the proper thickness waved like a flag when blown upon. It seemed like a comically unsanitary, albeit effective, way to test it in my humble opinion—but I couldn’t help my smile as I shook my head in mock disapproval.
“Relentless man,” I chastised as he laughed. God, that sound made my insides go molten. I could listen to Broderick Allen laugh for the rest of my life. The thought brought me up short after our earlier conversations. Yes, I didn’t have to have all the answers right now, and should probably just try to be present, but that didn’t keep my mind from wandering down years worth of questions. Things like where the hell would we live? When I traveled, would he come? Would he keep teaching? Because those two thoughts were not conducive to each other.
All the worries in the world couldn’t eclipse the way my body melted as he wrapped around me, his chin returning to my shoulder as he folded our dough. He felt like home to me. Felt like everything I’d always known he was in my life without the hope of him choosing me over them. But there he was, sliding the knife over the wood surface and slicing our Tagliatelle with anxiously precise strokes. He gave it a few gentle tosses before setting the serving aside to rest. I turned in his arms, looking up and smiling as his eyes met mine.
“Thank you,” I whispered softly. When he quirked his head, I shook mine before looking pointedly around the room. “For this. I enjoy having firsts with you.”
That knockout smile burst across his face like the early rays of sunrise. “To many more firsts,” he said, reaching for the wine glasses and handing me mine.
Nodding, I clinked our glasses together in cheers and agreed, “To many more.”
Broderick
“What arethe odds we walk away with a win?” El hissed Sunday afternoon, her fingers digging into my thighs like that might keep her anchored to the plush seats Pax saved us in the team’s friends and family box.
El had unavoidable business to attend to on Friday, and even a few calls on Saturday, but we’d taken advantage of every second of time in between meetings and after dark. Memorizing her body would be the highlight of my lifetime at this rate. The sweet little whimpers she made, the cranky edge to her voice if she needed to eat. Made even more hilarious because her assistant, Chris, could hear it too, and we both knew we had t-minus seven minutes to get protein into the woman before an explosion or meltdown. Which brought me to the next thing I loved—the respect and adoration her team showed her, the way they catered to her drive and dedication, anticipating needs both in and out of the virtual boardroom. It wasn’t just Chris, but her social media girls, the blogger who said very little on the video meetings but smiled to herself every so often at something they said, the PR team that sat in on strategy calls—they all loved her.
But there was nothing quite like the way she smiled as I settled over her naked body and read my current novel aloud for her to enjoy. She was always tracing feather light fingers over the veins in my arms. Weird kink, but I loved it. It was like she was working just as ardently to memorize me as I was her. Beyond the best fucking sex of my life, we’d talked this weekend. Finally, really talked. Future, past, it all came out between us.
The game had been riveting, and my girl was bouncing at the edge of her seat, eyes trained on the field, those pearly teeth digging into her lower lip as Pax and the o-line took their places after the Wolves called a timeout. They were down by a field goal with less than sixty seconds on the clock.
“I don’t know, baby, but I’ve seen them pull off wilder comebacks.”
“Pax has something up his sleeve, right? God, he’s always got an ace tucked away.”
I chuckled, watching her lip lose color as she worried it with a canine. Reaching up, I pushed her lip free with my thumb, turning her in my direction for a quick kiss before she wiggled with anxiety. I chuckled as those brows winged up, like she wasn’t sure what to do to dispel the energy of a nail biter match. The stadium went eerily still in home field anticipation. The echoing hush of one hundred thousand people holding their breath was a surreal kind of high. We dragged our eyes back to the field as other people in the box stood, hands braced over their mouths.
“Come on, Wolves,” she muttered under her breath, anxiously tapping her clenched fist against her lips. “Let’s go, Pax.”
The entire stadium sucked in a breath when they hiked the ball. The defense was gunning for our man though, and bellows of frustration filled the stadium when the line broke, and Pax bolted sidelong, before throwing the ball away.
“God dammit,” the man behind us muttered. He’d been thrilled to learn we were here to support ‘that Rhodes prodigy’.
“He saved his skin, he’ll make it up,” the woman to his right said as the ref announced the penalty, and the team made the walk with sagging shoulders.
“With forty seconds on the clock?” the man snipped back skeptically.
“Give him a break. This is Paxton Rhodes we’re talking about—he’s got forty seconds, two time outs, and his best receiver out there, and we just need a field goal to go into overtime. The game ain’t over,” another woman muttered. Did I take pride in our little Mistyvale hero inspiring that level of faith? Yeah. The kid was like a little brother to me. But it was nothing compared to the beam and glow of the woman beside me as she preened.
“There’s our boy,” I said, nodding to the mega screen and giving El a little squeeze. She hopped up, tugging me with her and looping my arm around her shoulders as Paxton’s face—which was so like his brothers—popped up on the screen, partially concealed behind his face guard. He looked entirely unfazed by the setback as he barked directions to his guys. That didn’t stop Elora from winding her arms around me like I might keep her anchored through the anxiety.
The entire stadium lost their minds when they pulled off a killer trick play before the opposing coach called a timeout.
“Motherfucker,” El barked. “They’re just fucking with their momentum, the fucking fuckers.”
The woman singing Paxton’s praises hacked out a gulp of cola, hand flying to cover her mouth as she battled between laughter and choking. But I was grinning like an imbecile. If I hadn’t already known that I loved this woman, watching her swear like a sailor with a freakish grasp for my favorite sport would’ve done it.
“That sums it up,” the man behind us with the handlebar mustache said.
“I’m starving, let’s grab a snack in case we end up in OT.”
“Remind me to sell off my left kidney to thank Pax for these seats when we get home,” I said as I followed her toward the in-suite smorgasbord where Mustache’s wife was walking away with a couple of sodas. Snacks were a luxury in a match this tight, and there’s absolutely no way we could survive the lines in the main stadium and make it back in the two minutes they cut away to sell cars and more soft drinks. But then my stomach did this little sinking thing because I’d said we. When we get home. There was no ‘we’ when that happened. It would be me, back in my townhouse on my own while El started her book tour. Nope. Didn’t like that even a little bit. Now wasn’t the time to mope, though.
“I already gave him my right one, so we’re all good,” she tossed over her shoulder playfully. But my eyes fell to the way those dark pants hugged her curves. El was wearing a purple jersey with her brother’s number on it, their last name emblazoned between her shoulders. She tied the jersey above black jeans that sat over her belly button, tan skin playing peekaboo between them. Black boots that doubled as a weapon really topped off the look, and I couldn’t wait to peel it all off her and bite that perky ass she’d been teasing me with for the last three hours. She was unbearably appealing in her purple Wolves beanie and matching scarf. Yeah, it looked like the apparel shop threw up on us, but her dedication was adorable. When we reached the buffet, I jerked my gaze up to her face as she asked, “So, Professor, what’s your go-to snack these days? Smoked pork loin? Barbeque shredded beef? In more of a drink your calories kind of mood?” she asked, motioning to the wet bar.
I nodded to the pretty blonde attendant who blushed when she smiled before turning my attention to El. The attendant shuffled away, ducking out of the room like she had been all afternoon when supplies needed replenishing. “Tough choice, but I’m leaning toward chips and queso—something crunchy to dispel some of this anxiety as Pax works his magic.”
“Can’t beat the classics.” Her smile twisted sideways as she added, “I’m less concerned with Paxton’s magic and more with what’s going through that head of yours.”
“What makes you think my mind is occupied with anything but football?” I asked with a shrug. “I mean, I was definitely admiring your ass on the walk over here.”
Her eyes flicked sidelong, ensuring the attendant hadn’t come back, her voice low as she said, “Still thinking about what you did to it last night?”
“Thinking about all the things I’d like to do to it,” I countered.
She gave a little groan that made my balls tighten. It was the same sound she made when she needed me. “Fuck, you make it hard to focus on anything else.”
“Pot, meet kettle.”
“Glad the feeling is mutual.” Eyes sparking, she reached up and rubbed her thumb between my brows, like she could dispel the ache there. “But… this little furrow, for starters,” she supplied, answering my initial question. El lifted onto her tiptoes to press a peck to my lips. “And because every time I’ve caught you looking at me, you seem like you’re solving a very complicated puzzle.”
“Ahh, that. Well, nosy, if you must know, I’ve been pondering whether you’re more of a wine or whiskey girl these days.”
The little tick in her jaw said she knew I was full of shit, but the amusement in her eyes knew she wouldn’t get anywhere if she pressed. Relief sluiced through me when she shrugged and said, “I’m a woman of many tastes.” Before I could respond, the announcer came over the loudspeaker, and her eyes went wide. Saved by the bell. “Oooh, shit. It’s game time, Professor.”
“Go. Sit and watch. I’ll pour drinks.”
“You sure?” she asked, but she peered around my shoulder like she could somehow see the field.
Chuckling, I jerked my head back toward our seats and said, “Yeah, Pix. Go keep an eye on your brother.”
She blew out a stressed little breath that made me smile. “Yeah, okay. Thanks, babe.”
It was a physical fight not to scoop her into my arms at the sound of the pet name, but I resisted. Fuck, I’d waited for what felt like a lifetime to be more than just ‘Brod’ in her world. She hustled down to our seats, and I grinned as I watched her, the anxiety of the game seeming to return to that beautiful little body as the announcers came on the speaker, words about as clear as the teacher in Charlie Brown. We’d talk about our plans, but today wasn’t the day. Today, I was just going to enjoy being with her. By the time I made it down to our seats, everyone was shifting nervously, El included. She rocked on her seat as she accepted the plate of assorted snacks.
“Here we go. Fuck, I might puke.”
“No puking,” I said at the same time as our friend with the mustache. We all shifted in our seats as the team took their places. Then they were moving—Pax faked left and juked right. His guys held the line, and he bided his time. My stomach sank as I saw the break in the line, but Pax saw it too, quick on his feet as he shifted, eyes still downfield as opponents closed in. One was tackled with a brutal clap, but the other had a clear shot as Paxton wound up and let the ball fly like he shot the pass from a canon a beat before both players went flying out of bounds with an audible crack that had everyone wincing. Everyone except for Elora.
Her hand flew to her mouth, but when I glanced her way, her eyes were down the field, not at her brother on the sideline. Downfield, as that rocket flew sixty, seventy, eighty impossible, gorgeous yards, directly into the open hands of a sprinting receiver as he crossed into the end zone.
The stadium erupted. But it was Elora, her arms around my neck and mouth pressed to mine, that consumed my mind. A dull cloud of cotton swallowed the outside world as everything in my body pulled into her. I tugged her little frame into mine, mind buzzing as I soaked in the feel of her. There weren’t words adequate enough for the sensation of getting to touch her like this in public and I decided right then to do whatever it took to keep her forever.
The frenetic roar of the stadium needled through the Elora-haze, mind replaying the last sixty seconds. She was incredible–such a badass little winner. Even through her own nerves, she’d kept her eyes on the goal, on what her brother had just put his body on the line to accomplish. Hell, her enthusiastic collision with my mouth was her priority before she peeled away to find that number thirteen on the field. Like she just trusted that he was okay.
Much to my relief, the cameras all trained on Pax as his team mobbed around him.
“That kid may have just set an in-game record,” Mustache roared over the crowd behind us. But my eyes were no longer tracking Pax after the guys dumped a cooler of electric blue liquid over his head as he shared a congratulatory hug with their coach. No, they were locked on the smaller screen off to the side of the main one. The one with a red heart and ‘Kiss Cam’ written across the top, replaying Elora jumping into the air with her arms up in victory before slamming her mouth against mine.
“Well, shit.”
Elora was watchingme with a permanent furrow in her brow as I paced the length of the room, my phone pressed to my ear. She had Max scouring the internet for the footage, and blessedly coming up empty thus far. But that didn’t stop her from chewing a hole in her lip as she fast-forwarded through the replay on her computer. It seemed like the coverage had been properly trained on the celebratory chaos on the field.
It was only a matter of time, though, once they realized who had been in that private box. The golden boy’s big sister might not get coverage, but Elora Rhodes, the internet sensation, certainly would.
The obnoxious ringing finally gave way to that telltale click, and a gruff, “Hey, man. Good to see your name. How’s it going?”
“Uh, good, good. Everything’s good.”
His low chuckle filled the line a beat before he said, “Why do you sound like you’re convincing yourself of that?”
“Nah, all good here. How are you guys?” I desperately attempted a redirection. Elora buried her face in her hands with a groan that sent me smiling.
“Great! Noel just wrapped up work down at the office and is heading home.”
So, we had a minute. Hopefully, it would be enough. “Nice, say hi for me.” Right as I was going to ask if he had time to chat, he beat me to it.
“I’ve been meaning to call, man. You got a sec?”
Running my hand over my face, I blew out a breath as I said, “Yeah! What’s up?”
“I need your help.”
“We burying a body, or something less eventful?”
“Fuck, dude, we don’t discuss felonies on the phone,” he laughed. A real one. Those were far and few between with Jameson, and my interest piqued despite the anxiety telling me to rip off the metaphorical bandage.
“You’re right—my bad.”
“But I really could use your help. No felonies—or misdemeanors, for that matter.”
“Shoot.”
“I’m going to propose to Noel.”
My head snapped up from where my gaze had settled on the plain gray carpet. “I’m sorry. Am I having a stroke?”
His laughter emanated enough that Elora clambered over the mattress to stand beside me, pressing her ear to the opposite side of the phone. Smirking, I flipped my cell into my palm and hit the speaker button.
“I mean it. She’s it for me. Known for quite a while now. I’m thinking I’ll do it during Christmas in Florida. We’ll have the whole family together, in her hometown. I figure do some Florida Christmas shit—I dunno what that is—and ask her to be my forever.”
“Damn,” I muttered, as my stomach constricted. If anybody deserved a happy forever, it was Jameson and Noel. “Congratulations, bro. That’s… huge.”
“I know.”
“How you feeling?”
“Really, really damn good. I’ve had the ring for months, just waiting for the perfect idea. And I think this is it. Is that good enough?”
“It’s great, James. Surrounded by your big ass family and hers? She’ll love that.” When I found Elora’s eyes, they were glossy, her hands crossed over her heart and face so sappy I could have laughed. It would’ve ruined the moment, though, so I held it together.
“So, I need your help planning.”
“Of course.”
“And you’re coming.”
“To the wedding? No kidding.”
“To the Christmas proposal, smartass.”
That earned a chuckle, but my eyes slipped up to El, who was grinning like the Cheshire Cat. I just got invited to Christmas. “My parents will be on that cruise with Max’s folks.”
“Perfect.”
“No ideas on where you want to do this?”
“I was thinking about the house. Maybe hide it on the tree or something? She likes romantic shit like you read about—oh shit, she’s home. Gotta run. Love you, man.”
Before I could respond, the line died, and I was left staring down steel-blue eyes a beat before Elora balked like a chicken.
“Get your smartass over here,” I snarled as I chucked my phone onto the pillows, lunging for her as she shrieked and fled. One tickle fight and a quickie later, we were cuddled up under the sheets when I called Rhyett but got his voicemail instead. It seemed the odds were not particularly favorable outside of the game today.