Chapter Sixteen Lorenzo
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Lorenzo
P hase One of Operation Fake Fiancée, a subtle title Willow came up with, is officially a go. I still haven’t pushed Lily on the subject of why she dislikes the Ludlows enough to help me win the election, but I plan on figuring it out tonight during our first official date.
Since I was too busy working with one of my clients—a man who needs an investor for his water-containment system that helps farmers save water—to plan a date tonight, Willow took it upon herself to fit Lily and me into a fully-booked cooking class in town.
It’s the perfect kind of setting for a date. A staged dinner would’ve been too awkward, so a cooking class gives us something to do while remaining in the public eye.
Tonight’s meal is one I could easily make in my sleep thanks to growing up with an Italian father who hated store-bought ravioli, but Lily looks excited about it.
Maria, an older Italian woman I’ve spent time getting to know, and her American husband pull Lily and me aside to say hello.
“Lorenzo!” The chef throws her arms around me. “What a nice surprise. I had no idea you’d be attending tonight’s class.”
I freeze up, only to be further physically tested when her husband claps a hand around my shoulder.
“Good to see you.”
I’m about to shake him off, but Lily’s hand wrapping around my bicep puts a temporary stop to that idea.
Careful now , the same black fog slithers through my mind, sucking some of my life force away.
“I love what you’ve done with the place,” Lily says while looking at me out of the corner of her eye.
“Thank you! Lorenzo helped us with the rebranding project.” She beams. “Without him, it wouldn’t have been possible to turn the restaurant into a cooking school.”
Maria’s husband, who looks extremely uncomfortable at the reminder of my help, is proof why. Most people, especially men, hate asking for money, so I’m typically brought on as a silent investor when people are out of options and need capital.
I provide funds in exchange for a small percentage of annual profits, and based on the way Maria’s cooking class is thriving, I made the right decision investing in the remodel. Although he’d never say it, I’m sure her proud husband agrees given how packed the room is.
He and Maria politely excuse themselves from the conversation so they can welcome the other guests. The attendees’ ages range, and our group is full of newlywed couples and retirees who are looking for something entertaining to do on a weekday.
“Who else have you helped in town?” Lily whispers to me while Maria hands out plastic aprons to the group.
I press my mouth against her ear. “Wouldn’t be much of a secret if I told you, would it?”
She is a little slow when pulling away. “I’m surprised you’re not flaunting it for everyone to see.”
“Unlike the Lopez cousins, some of us don’t need to have a street or soccer field dedicated in our honor.”
She sticks out her tongue as Maria stops by our station to hand us our aprons. “For my favorite student.”
Lily grabs both. “Better not let your other ones hear that.”
“They’ll understand once they see this man cook.”
Lily waits until Maria takes off before teasing, “Sounds like I’m in the presence of a professional.”
“Hardly.” I’d rather downplay my skills than be praised for them.
“How’d you get into cooking?” She speaks low so no one hears us.
“My parents.” Hopefully my short answer wards her away from asking more questions about it.
Cooking is more about control than enjoying the art. My first and last therapist told me as much, along with how control was one of the reasons I most likely developed OCD.
Sometimes when a child is ripped away from their life like I had been, they feel the need to establish control over every aspect of their environment.
Which is why tonight is that much more difficult for me.
In my own kitchen, I know exactly where and when the food was bought.
I can double- and triple-check expiration dates without anyone noticing the compulsion, and I’m able to wash my fruits and veggies until it feels just right without anyone judging me.
It isn’t healthy. My brief stint in therapy taught me that, but my compulsive behaviors can be difficult to stop, and me staying in my comfort zone where I have full control over everything doesn’t help.
So instead of learning how to better manage them, I’ve built quite a repertoire of recipes since I rarely order takeout or eat at restaurants.
Lily slips her plastic apron over her head, making her dark hair stand up in all different directions. Before I think twice about it, I reach behind her head and fix her hair so it’s no longer catching on the plastic.
She blinks up at me, her eyes slightly wider than before.
“What?” I ask.
She rips her gaze away. “Nothing.”
We both know she’s lying, but I don’t push, instead holding out the permanent marker so she can write my name across the front of the apron. When it’s my turn to do the same, I’m questioning if I can make it through the four letters of her name without making a fool of myself.
In the middle of writing the letter y , her body goes rigid.
“What?” I look around for what threatened her happiness and easily locate the source.
Cazzo .
Richard, Trevor Ludlow’s younger, less charismatic brother, walks into the room with a blonde woman on his arm. She hangs on to him and bats her lashes at everyone in the vicinity.
He immediately zones in on us.
“Ignore him.” I step in front of her, blocking his view of Lily as Maria starts talking about the history of pasta and the basic instructions of tonight’s class before assigning us to our tables.
Lily and I are sent to one in a corner nearest the window. It gives us privacy from the other couples while simultaneously allowing people walking by the class to see us.
The location is perfect…right up until Richard and his date get set up at a station parallel to ours. I can feel his attention focused on us, and I don’t like it one bit, but I do my best to forget about him.
My issues are with his brother, not him, although I’m starting to have a problem with the youngest Ludlow, who keeps glancing over at Lily.
I check our ingredients for tonight’s dinner and dessert before Lily and I start working on our dough.
“How often do you make fresh pasta?” she asks as I crack an egg over my well of flour.
“Never.”
She lets out a fake gasp of outrage. “I thought you were Italian.”
I grab a pinch of flour and flick it at her face.
With a giggle, she wipes her flour-speckled cheek. She ends up missing a spot, so I brush it away. A camera flash startles us both, and we look over to see Maria winking. She checks the photo before scurrying away with a promise to send me a copy.
Lily eyes me rolling the dough into a ball while her flour-egg combo remains untouched. “When’s the last time you did this?”
I need a second to think of a response. “Sometime after I moved to Vegas. One of the nannies wanted me to”— stop crying —“feel comfortable.”
Although all it did was make me miss home .
Her eyes soften, and I wonder if she can read between the lines of my answer.
“Did your parents teach you?” she asks, her gentle voice soothing the scratchiness in my throat at the mention of them.
I look at my ball of dough. “Yes, and once I learned, I helped them make pasta every Friday afterward.”
She gives my bicep a squeeze, leaving a dusty handprint on my skin. “Sounds like a tradition I can get behind.”
“Don’t get me started on traditions,” I tease, surprised by my own lightheartedness. Usually I avoid talking about my parents, but with Lily, I don’t even notice, most likely because the typical heaviness I feel whenever I think about them is dormant.
Which is probably why I tell her about their yearly sauce-day tradition.
“As a little kid, I hated every second of it,” I say after explaining the concept, my throat thick with emotion. If I could go back, I would’ve spent my time enjoying my parents’ company rather than complaining.
I close my eyes and picture my mom and dad working outside, their backs hunched as they took turns stirring the pot full of tomatoes. Back then, life was simple, and I didn’t have the same contamination worries or concerns about food prep.
“Do you have their recipe somewhere? I’d love to try it,” she asks.
No, because my uncle donated or discarded most of my father’s possessions—another unforgivable act to add to his never-ending list.
“Before…you know…my parents had this recipe book.” I have no idea why I am sharing so much about myself, but I can’t seem to stop myself as I continue. “They’d always try new ones, and if they liked it enough, they’d write it down.”
I regret sharing such a small detail about myself, especially when she looks at me with an expression I’ve learned to recognize.
Pity .
It’s gone as soon as I blink, and for that, I’m grateful.
She smiles instead. “Seems like they were a lot of fun.”
The conversation seems to die after that, and I miss the curious sparkle in Lily’s eyes once she resumes her task of shaping the dough into a ball.
With each pass of the rolling pin we have to share, energy crackles and the air thickens around us, and it all comes to a crescendo when Lily struggles to flatten her dough.
She sucks in a breath when I step behind her, only for her breathing to stop altogether when I place my hands over hers and create a cage with my arms.
“What are you doing?” she whispers low enough for only us to hear.
“At this rate, you and I will be stuck here all night,” I say louder.
“Don’t threaten me with a good time, baby.” She winks, and Richard looks ready to keel over his table nearby.
“But I have plans for us later.” I drop a kiss on the spot where her shoulder meets the curve of her neck. Her flesh pebbles from the brief contact, and I smile against her skin that smells of flowers, vanilla, and a note of something else I can’t identify.
“Fine.” She sighs dramatically. “Help me.”
I resume our task of rolling the dough, each press of my body against hers drawing a different physical reaction.
“Why do you enjoy antagonizing me?” she whispers.
“I’m showing my girlfriend how much I want her.”
“In that case…” She shimmies her hips, rubbing her ass against my crotch until some of my blood rushes south.
I bite down on my cheek hard enough to taste blood.
“You good?” She looks over her shoulder with a smirk.
“Peachy.” My gaze drops to her incriminating ass and the bulge forming beneath my jeans.
Think about anything else. Manny kicking your ass in poker. Willow saying you’ll never win the election. The CDC announcing that an emerging virus is turning everyone into flesh-eating zombies.
Lily glances over her shoulder and smiles in a way that makes me wish it were real. A dangerous thought given our situation, and a reminder of why I can’t get caught up in the ruse.
The side of my face prickles with awareness, and I turn my head toward Richard, who is staring at Lily. His obvious interest in her doesn’t surprise me because most men react the same way, but something about him screams wrong .
My intuition hasn’t led me astray before, so I listen to it and goad Richard into showing me his cards.
I cover Lily’s hands and help her with the last few rolls, earning an eye twitch from Richard.
Hm .
I never doubted her when she claimed to dislike the Ludlows, but I also never got around to pressing her on the subject. All that will change tonight because I’m going to get the truth out of her.
One way or another.