Chapter 27
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
T his was supposed to be her de-stress lasagna, but Joel standing there in his athletic tee and gray sweatpants stirring sauce while drinking wine, had somehow turned it into an erotic experience. Everything suddenly had sexual undertones.
“Taste this,” he said, turning to her with the sauce ladle, his hand underneath ready to catch any drips. “Watch out, it’s hot.” He blew gently on the sauce.
No shit , she’d thought, watching his forearm flex as he brought the spoon to her lips.
“Good?” he asked.
Yes. More, please.
By the time they were layering the alternating strips of pasta, sauce, béchamel and cheese, she was so turned on she was ready to strip those damn sweatpants off and ride him on the kitchen floor. Judging by the way his dimple popped every time he caught her ogling him, the jerk knew it too.
Joel put on some music, and the soft lyrics played through the apartment as they cooked, assembled the dish, then tidied up while the lasagna baked. This was why she called it her de-stress dish because every step required so much attention that it distracted her from whatever she’d been worrying about. Well, she was certainly distracted.
They dried off the last pot when there were still fifteen minutes of bake time left. The apartment smelled like an Italian restaurant, and she inhaled deeply. Her lasagna was the best, better even than her mother’s—not that she’d ever tell Maria that. Her secret was simple. She used homemade béchamel sauce instead of spinach and ricotta, and she never skimped on the Bolognese sauce, always laying it on thick between noodles, so they’d become saturated with the flavor while baking. It wasn’t calorie-wise, but not a soul had ever complained.
Joel slung the dishcloth over his shoulder as a new song started up. The melody filled the kitchen, slow and seductive, and memory flickered across her mind just as he said, “Dance with me.”
Three simple words, but Lucy knew they were game changers. How many times had they danced in their kitchen in San Francisco? How many times had he said those words before scooping her up in his arms? Each time they’d ended up naked somewhere in the penthouse, either burning dinner or working up an appetite for it.
Dancing with him now wouldn’t be a little spin around the kitchen because a good song was playing. It would be a surrender. An acceptance that this thing between them, this agreement, this farce, wasn’t that anymore.
She wasn’t sure she was ready to shift into the new version of what they could be. There was still so much they hadn’t spoken about. So much she wasn’t ready to speak about .
“Luciana,” he said as he held out his hand. “Please dance with me.”
The truth hit her hard as she stared at his outstretched hand. It didn’t matter whether they talked about the past or not. It didn’t matter if Vanessa knew their engagement started as a sham. It didn’t even matter if they went ahead with their fake wedding or didn’t. She would never not dance with this man.
Molding herself into his arms, he lifted her until she was on tiptoes, hugging her like he’d just found her after years apart. Which maybe wasn’t so far from the truth.
They didn’t dance so much as Joel crushed her to him and swayed while she buried her face against his shoulder. The sting of her tears were absorbed into the fabric of his shirt. And when the song ended, and another one started, he didn’t let go, not until the oven timer went off, and even then it was a gradual release, a peeling apart, as they realized it was either that or deal with the fire alarm going off.
They didn’t speak as Joel pulled the hot dish out of the oven and set it on the stove to cool. They didn’t speak as they laid the table, Joel filling their glasses with more wine, as Lucy carried out the salad and warmed bread. They didn’t speak when he pulled out a chair for her to sit.
The tension only broke when Joel took his seat across from her and lifted his glass. “Cheers.” His eyes sparkled like silver in the low lights overhead. “To celebrity sisters keeping their mouths shut.”
Lucy laughed, picking up her wine. “I’ll definitely cheers to that.”
They clinked glasses, then dug in.
“Fuck, this is so good,” Joel said through his first bite. “The best I’ve ever had.”
“I know.” She didn’t brag about much, but when it came to her lasagna, there was no point in denying the truth. “I should open a restaurant and serve only this. I’d make millions.”
“Say the word, and I’ll make it happen.” The way he was devouring his first slice and reaching for another, she believed he might actually be serious.
“Okay, moneybags. I’ll start scoping out possible locations. We should probably open a chain. We’ll call it Gluttony, and the slogan can be ‘ Come for a slice, stay for a pan.’ ”
They spent the next hour laughing, eating, drinking, and talking about everything from quack businesses they’d open to the custom dream homes they’d love to build for each of their relatives. A comfortable familiarity tugged on her muscle memory. The remembrance of the quiet months when it was just the two of them. Three if you counted the baby. And for the duration of dinner, everything between then and now was tucked out of her mind.
Finally, the need to move was greater than her desire for another bite of saucy, creamy deliciousness, and Lucy pushed away her plate with a groan. “That’s it. I tap out. Not another bite until leftovers tomorrow.”
Across from her, Joel stood, chuckling in that low way of his that sent fissures of pleasure directly to her core. It was a sound more delectable than the food she’d eaten. He moved with ease, as if he hadn’t devoured a quarter pan of lasagna, picking up their dishes as he went.
Begrudgingly, because she knew the fragile moment of peace between them was coming to an end, Lucy also got up, gathering napkins and the parmesan shaker.
From the speaker, a new song floated through the air. The lyrics haunting, painting a picture of a couple that separated and the longing that lasted long afterward.
Over the mess on the table, their gazes collided, and she froze under his assessment. The melody rolled between them, Joel’s eyes never releasing her from the prison of his intensity.
“Don’t,” he whispered.
“Don’t what?” It was all she could breathe in return.
Was he talking about the way she was staring at him or the parmesan shaker she’d picked up? She’d never been hypnotized before, but she imagined this would be what it felt like. A magnetizing pull, outside of your own control, to do whatever was being asked of you.
“Don’t—”
She could practically see his mind racing. A silent movie played across his eyes.
Then he blinked, mumbled, “Fuck it,” and she was in his arms.
They kissed like it was their last chance, a tangle of tongues, bodies angling for best possible access. Joel made a low growling sound in the back of his throat as he devoured her in a way she hadn’t experienced before, his whole body enveloping her in the embrace. Fingers combing through her hair, skimming down her back, squeezing her ass while pressing her closer. Mouth on her jaw and neck, tracing her collarbone before working up to her swollen lips.
Heat flooded every corner of her until she trembled with need. When he wrenched himself away from her, she cried out in protest and then launched herself onto him for more. And again, they consumed each other, like the four years starvation was insatiable now and they were ravenous.
“Lucy,” Joel gasped between kisses. His palm skimmed up her shirt, around her rib cage, along her breast. “This isn’t supposed to go like this.”
“Yes, it is,” she gasped. “It’s supposed to be exactly like this.” Her hand dove to the front of his sweatpants and she groaned when she felt his imprint there, a hard ridge under soft material. She felt the phantom sensation of his cock buried inside her. The ache between her legs was pounding for it.
A groan rose between them, but she was too far gone to place who it came from.
“No!” Joel wrenched himself away, leaving her bereft and throbbing. His breath was heaving as he glared at her. “Not like this. Not before we’ve talked about things.”
Her brain rallied to catch up with his damn reasoning, but then lagged in a shockingly uncharacteristic betrayal. Where was her sanity? “We don’t need to talk.”
“We do,” he insisted, hauling her back, cocooning against his chest. “We do.”
“Do we?” She wasn’t sure she could. Some things were impossible to talk about. Too painful. Too gut-wrenching.
“I have to, Lucy.” He sounded desperate. Pleading. “ I have to.”
Tears flooded her eyes, because she knew she would talk for him. She’d dig through the rubble of her greatest heartache and discuss it with him. For him. Because she loved him. And it was achingly clear that wasn’t going away anytime soon.
“Okay,” she whispered, eyes downcast, heart reeling with the cacophony of emotions splitting her chest in two. She needed time to prepare, to organize the chaotic grief she’d been carrying all these years. “Can I just have a little more time.”
“For what?” He leaned back, his brow furrowed, the gray in his eyes gathering like a storm.
“I know, I know.” She saw his meticulous patience waning. And she couldn’t exactly blame him. “But I don’t want to dump four years’ worth of emotion on you. I want to be thoughtful.”
For a long moment, Joel said nothing. Then he dragged her back toward him, his lips pressing her forehead, his heart thundering under her palm. “Tomorrow then. Think about what you want to say, Luciana, and we’ll talk.”