Chapter 7 Sophie
Sophie
Vin wants to eat.
I bite back a smile at that one, a dozen things I’d like to feed that man cross my mind, not a single one of them technically edible.
I snatch the knife from him while he’s distracted and use it to gesture toward the couch. “Go. Sit. I’ve got this.”
Vin grabs a handful of olives and turns, leaning his hip against the counter instead. “Nah. You’re going to show me how I managed to fuck up cutting salami.”
A sigh escapes me. I shake my head, pretending irritation as I slice the soppressata paper-thin. “It just needs to be thinner, that’s all.”
“Why?” He snatches one of my slices and shoves it in his mouth before I can stop him.
I swat his hand away and cut a few more slices. “Watch.”
I fan and fold a dozen slices around the edges of a shot glass. When I’m done, I flip the glass, release the salami, and show him: a perfectly shaped soppressata rose.
“Well, damn.” He pops another olive in his mouth. “Impressive. But a waste of time, princess.”
I hold the delicate rose up to him. “What? No. Presentation matters. It’s pretty!”
His gaze locks on mine as he leans down slowly, hovering his mouth over the rose cradled in my palm. Without a word, he snatches the whole thing out of my hand with his teeth.
“Vin!” I laugh, and he grins around his mouthful of salami.
“Hungry,” he manages while chewing.
“Oh my gosh!” I turn back to the cutting board, bumping him with my hip.
He’s close enough that I can feel the heat emanating from him.
I offer him a slice of fontina cheese, and he takes it the same way he took the salami rose: bending forward, eyes drilling into mine, capturing it between his teeth.
Instantly wet.
I blush and turn back to pushing the knife through the hard pecorino cheese, my hands shaking. He’s so. Friggin. Hot.
Regaining my composure, I cut Italian bread into rounds. “Only a couple more months, and you’ll be an uncle. Three times over between Tommy and Giovanna’s twins and Matti and Siena’s baby.”
Vin grunts, leaning back against the counter, arms crossed over his impossibly broad chest, watching me.
“Now’s a bad time for women and babies.”
“Mmm, you might be right. But I guess it’s never a good time in your line of work, is it.” I point at the cabinet behind us. “Can you grab the small ceramic bowl for me? Top shelf.”
Vin raises an eyebrow, then does as I ask. I steal glances, admiring the way his shirt rises up a few inches, exposing his taut stomach as he plucks it effortlessly off the top shelf that I have to use a stool to reach. Devastating.
He’s clearly not thinking the same about me. He drops the bowl next to me with casual indifference.
I rinse it out and scrape the pesto from the blender into the bowl, then center it on the antipasto board. “Want to help me arrange the antipasti?”
He glances over both shoulders like he’s looking for an escape.
“Listen, princess, I should walk the perimeter, double check the windows—”
I rest my hand softly on his forearm, lifting my gaze to his. He stops mid-sentence, locked on.
“Please.”
He sighs, surrendering. For a moment, we work in silence, arranging olives and slices of meat and cheese around the pesto.
“I can see why you like this,” he says.
“Making antipasti? Or being in the kitchen?”
He nods, still placing meat and cheese on the board with surprising care. “Both. It’s relaxing.”
“That’s true. It’s also…certain.”
“What do you mean?”
I hand him the finished antipasto board, and he follows me to the my rickety dining table.
“It’s science. I know that if I mix one egg with 100 grams of flour I’ll get pasta dough. If I roll that dough out, cut it into strips, and boil it for three minutes, I’ll get tagliatelle. Cooking is dependable.”
He side eyes me as he sets the antipasto board down. “And you like dependable.”
“Of course. Everyone likes dependable. Constant chaos is stressful. Isn’t it?” I gesture for him to sit then fix him a plate. “Don’t you prefer to have people and things in your life you can count on?”
He studies my face without responding, his gaze falling to my mouth, the silence between us thick and charged. Finally, he drops into a chair and rolls a piece of salami around a piece of cheese.
“I have my brothers. Other than that, I thrive on chaos.”
Darkness clouds his expression as he drags a palm over his face. I smile softly.
“Yes, I saw you in action tonight. But you didn’t choose it. You responded to it. Seems like you would value dependability in your life.”
He watches me like I’m an oddity he doesn’t understand. “Are you telling me to take up cooking, princess?”
Even though he’s talking easily with me, he stays vigilant, glancing at the windows and scanning the room with tactical precision.
“Just saying that certainty can be grounding when you’re constantly threatened with chaos.”
I offer him an olive, half hoping he’ll eat it out of my fingers again. Instead he stands and steps in close to me, gripping my forearm tightly. The olive pops out of my fingers, bouncing across the floor.
Instinctively, I press my free hand to his hard chest and lean away, my smile instantly replaced with surprise.
This man is huge, all muscle, and while he’s not exactly angry, he’s not smiling either. I should be terrified.
But I’m not. I gaze up at his intense expression, and smooth my free hand over his chest. I can physically feel his energy relax by degrees even as his fingertips dig harder into my forearm.
My voice is soft when I speak. “Tell me what’s wrong, Vin.”
The corner of his lip twitches, and his gaze drops to my mouth, his heartbeat thudding under my palm. “Is it Sophie or Sophia?”
I have a hard time catching my breath. “Just Sophie. Everyone calls me Sophie. Only my family calls me Sophia.”
He nods, his expression hardening. “Okay then, Sophia. Since we are basically family, I need you to understand something: this is not a fucking vacation. Do not try to distract me, and do not cause any fucking problems.”
Definitely not hating this authoritative side of him. My pussy literally gains a heartbeat of her own.
“Yes, sir,” I murmur with a soft smile.
I think he interprets my response as mockery because he scowls. “Don’t fucking try me—”
I smooth both hands over his chest—oh my gosh, his chest—and let my smile fade into sincerity. “Vin, I understand the situation. I would never do that. Can I get you a drink?”
He grinds his teeth and pushes me back roughly. “I just fucking said not to distract me. Alcohol is not apart of the equation.”
“A beverage, Vin. A glass of water? Coffee?”
His jaw softens for a split second before he rubs both hands over his face, massaging his temples like he’s exhausted. “Coffee.”
Vin sinks back into his chair, silent, tracking my every movement as I dip a round of bread into the pesto and taste it while the coffee brews.
It’s perfection: flawlessly salted, the Opalescent basil complex and perfectly paired with the olive oil.
My eyes half close as I savor the one bite I permit myself. Trying not to do carbs late at night.
When I open them, Vin is staring. My skin prickles pink across my chest as I bring him the tiny cup of strong Italian coffee and place it in front of him. When I turn back to the kitchen to clean up, he grabs my wrist.
“Where’s yours?” He nods toward his plate.
“Oh.” My blush deepens. “Too late for me to eat.”
“I saw the look on your face when you tried it. If you’re hungry, eat.”
“No, that’s okay—”
He kicks a dining room chair out from under the table. “Sit.”
Holy wow. My knees almost buckle under the force of his command. Holding his gaze, I perch on the edge of the chair and wait.
His lip twitches into a little smirk as he picks up a round of bread, dips it in the pesto, then holds it out to me. “Eat.”
My heart is racing, and I don’t move, my gaze dropping to the bread and then back to him.
His grip on my wrist tightens. “Are you going to make me ask you twice?”
I can’t read his tone. Is this flirtation? A game? Honestly, I don’t care. I love everything about this moment: this gorgeous man touching me, his laser-focused attention, the food.
I let my jaw drop open but don’t lean forward. When his gaze falls to my mouth, the smirk disappears, replaced with a smoldering heat that has me wet all over again.
Slowly, he extends the bread forward, watching as he pushes it just past my lips, the sauce tangy on my tongue. I bite the bread and hold still, letting him pull the rest away from my mouth. When his heavy lidded gaze rises to meet mine, I obediently chew and swallow.
Oh my gosh, soooo good.
Our breathing syncs up, heavy and shallow. I suck my bottom lip between my teeth and lick off the sauce as he watches.
Abruptly, he releases my wrist and turns back to his food, rolling salami around pecorino, drowning both in pesto, and devouring it in one bite.
His eyes close. “Jesus Christ,” he murmurs, then directs his full attention to the plate, coating each bite in pesto and consuming it with single-minded focus.
I sit and watch him, barely able to contain my pride in how much he likes my food. When he’s done, I take his plate and rise, returning to the kitchen. “Would you like more? Or maybe dessert?”
He stands, his gaze predatory, and follows, standing behind me at the sink.
“I’m doing the dishes,” he says.
I laugh. “I would never ask you to do that. I don’t have a dishwasher, so it’s a real pain, I promise you.”
His hand grazes over my ass, deliberate and possessive. I freeze. I think I hear him swallow a groan, but maybe I’m imagining it?
“Princess, unless you want me to shove your face in that sink and fuck your ass, you’d better move and let me wash the God damn dishes.”
My eyes fly wide open. I suck in a sharp breath and glance over my shoulder at him, then place his plate in the sink. “Since you put it so eloquently…”