11. Vivian
Vivian
the next week
H ere goes nothing , I tell myself as I ring the doorbell.
The wine bottle I’m gripping feels slick enough to slip out of my hand, and I grasp it firmly to my side as I shift my purse on my shoulder.
All of our conversations thus far have not included wine, so I don’t know what he likes.
Hopefully the Francis Ford Coppola brand the guy at the corner liquor store suggested will work.
Even if it doesn’t taste very good, maybe I can play it off as a joke since we both love The Godfather . I can do that, right?
A trickle of sweat runs down my hairline, and it’s not just the Atlanta heat.
I’ve never been this nervous for a date before and desperately want to impress him.
Even if it’s just with wine. Michael is too good to be true, and has made his intentions quite clear, so I shouldn’t feel as awkward as I do.
But I can’t help thinking that if it’s so easy and effortless now, that means something is bound to go wrong soon.
Taking a breath, I’m about to press the doorbell again when the door flies open and the warm aroma of garlic and exotic seasonings waft out.
High trumpet notes combine with the staccato beat of drums in an upbeat melody, similar to the music at L’Aventura the night we met…
salsa, maybe? But what draws my attention the most is Michael standing in front of me wearing a red apron that declares, “Real Men Rub Their Meat.” I’ll have to ask about that one later.
A simple blue tee showcases his broad shoulders and comes down over—ugh, of course—low-slung grey sweatpants, the staple of every hot guy’s wardrobe.
Seriously, he’s doing this to me? He’s barefoot, his dark hair slightly tousled.
A flush tinges his skin, and I wonder if it’s from his cooking or the street hockey game he had this afternoon.
Those coffee-brown eyes fasten on me intently, caressing me, warming me with their heat. Just like that first night, he seems to see straight into my soul. I don’t understand how a single look can light a bonfire inside me and still feel so safe, so right. Solid, like I’m home .
Time seems to stand still as Michael’s beautiful eyes flick from my face to all points of my body, as if he can’t decide what he wants to focus on first, before returning to rest on mine.
His gaze radiates desire, but it’s more than that, it’s a look of contentment.
Like we’ve made it past some unknown obstacle to the finish line.
A moment passes as we take each other in and that invisible thread between us grows even more taut.
It’s not like it’s our first date, but standing on the threshold of his home feels weighted and significant.
Like the start—or end—of something. And I’m scared to find out either way.
Sweat starts to pool above the waist of my jean shorts as I fidget with the hem of my pink t-shirt.
“You said to come comfortable…” I start, stuttering over any chance of a polite hello as Michael breaks out of his haze and reaches for me.
He pulls me close, wrapping his arms around my waist and sealing those sensual lips to mine.
His kiss is urgent yet tender, moving over my mouth and jaw and cheeks, planting a million tiny kisses everywhere as if every kiss is a mark of his claim on me.
As if I’m his favorite thing ever. And all those butterflies swoop and finally settle down in my belly.
“You’re finally here,” he breathes, the words feathering over my mouth as he gently presses his forehead against mine, staring into my eyes like he’s just won the lottery.
He slides his hands up and down my arms in that comforting way of his, and that’s when we both realize I’m still holding the wine bottle.
“What’s this?” Michael asks, taking it from my hands.
“Well, you know how we were talking about gangster flicks? I don’t really know a lot about wine, but I’m hoping the label might make up for it?”
Michael laughs, the sound golden to my ears. “This’ll be fun. Gracias.” He presses another kiss to my cheek. “ Ven , mi amor.”
He takes my hand and leads me inside. The room is bright and airy as the sunset casts a pink glow against the walls.
I note that the furniture rocks the same college vibe as my place: clean, comfortable, and does the job.
Basic, and also what I would expect from a young single professional.
A CD player in the corner is the source of the upbeat salsa music I’ve been hearing and my hips can’t help swaying to the beat.
Catching my movement, Michael dances with me into the kitchen where the most delicious smells are emanating from, twirling me around right as we approach the stove.
Brushing his lips against mine softly, his hands trace my curves and he gives my ass a gentle squeeze.
“Mmm, carino… I could dance with you all night.” He pulls away, kissing my hand. “But let me feed you first.”
My eyes widen at the feast I see before me, the blend of aromas assaulting my senses in the best way. Dishes of steaming hot white rice and black beans, golden toasted bread, and vibrantly red sliced tomatoes along with perfectly green avocado create a colorful spread fit for a large family.
“When you said dinner, I really thought you meant ordering a pizza or something. This is… so much food! Are you expecting anyone else?” I exclaim.
Michael smirks. “Well, I had to prove to you how good my cooking is.” He runs a hand through his hair.
“And I honestly haven’t figured out how to cook just for one yet.
When you make food for four people all the time, it’s kinda hard to pare it down.
My roommate gets leftovers, plus I don’t have to do takeout. ”
Michael returns to flipping something over in a frying pan and whatever it is smells amazing as it sizzles at his touch.
Just like me , I think. No clue what he’s making, but it instantly makes my mouth water.
I don’t register that I’m moaning out loud until Michael looks over his shoulder and his mouth quirks up.
“Should I leave you alone here for a minute? Because that sounds like you really want my meat.” He grins.
Rolling my eyes, I can’t stop my smile. “You wish.”
“Yup.” He winks, turning back to the subject at hand in the frying pan. Wow, it really is hot in here. Trying to get a grip on myself and not rip Michael’s shirt off so I can see if he’s burning up just as much as I am, I wrench my gaze to look around the countertops.
“What’s this?” Something yellow on a white plate catches my eye. It looks like some sort of thick pancake that’s been… smashed? Michael turns from the stove and catches my quizzical look.
“Tostones. They’re plantains, kind of like a banana. You fry ’em and smash ’em and fry them again. Try one.” When I don’t move, he picks one up and brings it to my mouth. “Here, eat.” He teases my lips open as I continue to hesitate.
I’m not known for my adventurous eating, and these things just look plain weird.
Even after all our conversations, we still haven’t known each other for long and who knows, I might end up with a strange allergy.
But as much as I attempt to talk myself out of trying something new, I can’t ignore the fact that I finally came to his house, and I’m here now, to—what, turn my nose up at the dinner he made for me?
And it smells far too tempting. Just like the man who prepared it.
I open my mouth and allow him to place a small bite on my tongue. It’s like the texture of a potato, but slightly sweet and salty. The same taste as his fingers as they leave my mouth.
“See? I knew you’d like it.” He laughs as he feeds me another bite.
“This is so delicious,” I moan as the flavors hit my tongue once again.
“Delicious,” he murmurs back, his eyes darkening as he zeroes in on my mouth.
Michael’s hand reaches out and his thumb slowly rubs the extra salt off my bottom lip.
Bringing it to his mouth, his tongue darts out and licks the salt from his thumb, his eyes never leaving mine.
My mouth parts at the sensual sight, as if his tongue is licking me instead, fire igniting a path down my chest and all throughout my core.
Pulse racing, I quiver as he swipes over his thumb again, savoring the taste and my knees grow weak.
He’s barely touched me, but I swear I can feel his mouth everywhere.
“Mmm,” Michael rumbles as his hand reaches for my hip to close the short distance between us.
The hiss of oil pulls him out of our near embrace, and I grunt my disappointment.
Whatever is in that pan better be worth it.
Grinning devilishly, he turns back to the stove and I try not to pout at the loss of his touch so quickly.
“So, mi amor, tonight we are going to have one of my favorite dishes that Paquita makes. This is bistec empanizado.”
“Which is what, exactly, for us non-Spanish speakers?” I ask as I fold my arms and lean against the counter.
“It's a breaded steak, but the secret is using Italian seasoning in the breadcrumbs.” He plates the last two pieces and wipes his hands on a towel.
“Really? Never would’ve thought of Italian seasonings in Cuban cooking,” I tease.
“Well,” he smiles, “we pretty much douse everything in garlic, so that goes into it too. But yeah, we like combining cultures and flavors,” he says as he turns and lands a quick peck on my lips.
I can’t get enough of his teasing kisses as I wonder if I can talk him into skipping dinner to get more quality time with that mouth of his… until my stomach growls.