Chapter 9 Vin
Vin
Hours blur together. Multiple coffee refills. Easy conversation. Stories about her cooking fails, my complaints about Tommy’s weird obsessions as a kid, her laugh at every crude joke I throw out.
The time evaporates. Then she falls asleep on my shoulder. I let it happen. Honestly, I don’t hate it.
She smells like cardamom and something flowery. Her body is soft everywhere mine is hard, curves pressing against my side, and that thin shirt she’s wearing leaves nothing to the imagination. I can see her nipples through the fabric, the rise and fall of her chest with each breath.
Fuck. I’m getting hard just watching her sleep.
I drag the back of knuckles lightly just below her collarbone.
She was flirting with me earlier in the kitchen.
The challenge in her eyes when I grabbed her wrist. The way she held my gaze when I fed her.
I could wake her up right now the way my cock wants to, slide my hand up those ridiculous little shorts, find out if she’s as wet as I think she is.
Before I can decide if that’s catastrophically stupid or the best idea I’ve had all day, she shifts in her sleep and buries her face in my chest, draping her arm around me like I’m her fucking pillow.
Oh hell no. Cuddling is not my shit. At all. Never has been, never will be.
Moving as stealthily as I can, I scoop Sophie into my arms. She stays tucked into me as I carry her to her bedroom, placing her gently on the bed. When she doesn’t wake up, I breathe a sigh of relief and double check that her windows are secure.
The house is cold and quiet. I stand over Sophie and pull the covers over her as the light from the window shines on her face.
I drag my fingertip over her cheek gently.
She sighs in her sleep and rolls away from me, the covers falling away to reveal her ass in those little sleep shorts.
I blow out a breath and shake my head. Fucking distracting is what she is.
Yanking her blanket back over her, I get the hell out of her room before I do something we’ll both regret. Or something I’ll regret. She’d probably be into it….
Stop. Thinking. About. It.
I pace her tiny shoebox of an apartment. Through the kitchen to the main living area bisected by the chipped counter, navigating around the shitty dining room table and the broken down furniture. Jesus Christ, this really is a shithole.
The hallway is so small it can barely be called that. I wander into the bathroom and absentmindedly open drawers.
Her perfume sits on the counter. I uncap it and inhale deeply. Nice. That’s the floral scent. Simple and soft like her. Face lotions and washes line up neatly. She doesn’t have much makeup.
A cabinet reveals new toothbrushes, tiny toothpastes, travel soaps and shampoos. For guests or does she have a parade of men through here? For some reason, my jaw clenches at the thought.
Another drawer has vitamins and supplements and—hello—a round container of birth control pills. Good to know. Not that I’d fuck her pussy anyway, but still, good intel.
Everything is organized. Clean. She lives simply, without the avalanche of products and frilly bullshit most women collect. It’s still pretty though; you can tell a woman lives here. Minimalist. Comfortable. Reminds me of the way Lucia keeps her kitchen.
I wander back to the living area and the couch with the vindictive spring and head to the fridge. The leftover antipasto and pesto from earlier is in front, and I pull out the containers, eating the food cold, standing at the counter in the dark.
Fuck. It’s even better cold somehow, the true test of good food. I groan out loud, shoveling it in my mouth like I haven’t eaten in days. Sophie’s a fucking incredible cook. Rivals Lucia, and that’s not something I say lightly. I’ve never had food better than Lucia’s.
When I finish, I wash the dishes as quietly as possible, leaving them on the counter to dry. I survey the little apartment then collapse on the torture device she calls a couch and wait for sunrise.
**
When light finally bleeds through the curtains, I finally allow myself to relax. I stretch out on the couch and turn on my side to avoid the spring that’s been jabbing my kidney all night.
A soft noise from the kitchen forces my eyes open, but otherwise, I don’t move. Sophie tiptoes into the kitchen, and I let my eyes drift half-closed so I can watch her through my lashes.
She frowns when she spots the dishes I left drying. Then she notices the empty food containers and realizes I ate her leftovers and cleaned up. A shy smile spreads across her face slowly. She’s fucking glowing. I’ve never met a woman so absurdly easy to make happy.
She turns toward the couch, studies me. I keep my breathing even, pretending to sleep, until she goes to the fridge.
Pulling out eggs, vegetables, fresh herbs, she chops everything with practiced precision, movements quick and efficient.
With a click and a flare, the gas burner ignites and she heats a pan while whipping eggs into submission then pours them in with a satisfying sizzle. The smell is incredible.
As the eggs cooks, she sets to work packing herself a lunch. It’s soothing to watch her work. She’s so methodical, focused, intent. I can feel my muscles relaxing the same way they used to when I’d watch Lucia cook.
I can’t stop staring at her mouth: full, soft, wet. Honestly, her huge ass usually monopolizes my attention, but she keeps sucking her bottom lip between her teeth when she concentrates, and it’s just so fucking—
I squeeze my eyes shut. I need to get laid. Sophie is nowhere near my type, not even close. I go for flashy, aggressive, overtly sexual. Women who advertise availability with low cut shirts and lower standards that make the path from hello to goodbye with a quick stop in bed much quicker.
When I sneak a peek again, the soft morning light reflects off her dark hair, and the way she bends over the counter draws my attention to the long lines of her neck.
I flashback to standing behind her at that counter last night, the way she felt between my arms, her ass pressed against me. The way she looked at me when she realized how hard that ass made me.
Fuck.
I yank myself back to the present. “What are you making?”
She squeals and drops the knife with a clatter. “Oh my God! I didn’t know you were awake!” She exhales hard, laughing.
Despite myself, I grin. “You alright?”
“Of course.” She collects herself and gives me a bright smile. “Did you sleep well?”
“No. Your couch sucks, princess. You need a new one.”
Genuine distress clouds her features. “Oh no! I’m so sorry. Yeah, it’s not great. I almost never sit on that couch, so I wasn’t thinking when I set you up there. I should have given you my bed.”
I raise an eyebrow as I sit up. “Your bed? You inviting me to share your bed?”
Her eyes sparkle as she lifts her gaze to meet mine. “Ma va, Vincenzo! Not a chance. But one night would not have killed me to sleep on the couch.”
Vincenzo. Only Lucia calls me that. And my parents, though it’s past tense for them.
“Since when do three-star Michelin chefs live in shitty one-bedroom apartments with couches that try to kill you?”
“Wow, don’t hold back,” she laughs. “Being famous doesn’t make you rich.”
“Are you famous?”
She shrugs. “In the culinary world, I guess, a little bit. I studied with Massimo Bottura. I judge cooking competitions that are relatively prestigious. I used to travel and mentor more frequently, but the past few years, I’ve been focused on my restaurant.”
“You have?”
I don’t try to hide my skepticism. She told me about her restaurant, the Arsenal, last night, and I’ve seen it 100 times before.
It’s unique, interesting, built into an abandoned brick building from World War II.
Like her, it has character, but the place is dead, almost no fucking customers ever from what Siena and Matti say.
“Don’t get me wrong, princess. Your food is un-fucking-believable, and you know I wouldn’t say it was if it wasn’t. But there’s no one there.”
She laughs uncomfortably. “Yes, cooking is my forte. Marketing, not so much. I don’t know how to get the word out. Thank God for Mr. Cavallari.”
I frown. “Who’s that?”
“He lives next door to the Arsenal and eats two meals a day there. He basically keeps the place going.”
“He does?” My frown deepens. “How much are you charging?”
“The normal amount.” She waves dismissively. “But he tips me when it’s just the two of us in the restaurant, and it usually is during the week. I try to tell him no, but he says I save him the trouble of grocery shopping. He’s just trying to be nice and I never see him with family, so I let him.”
I scowl. “Some guy is tipping you when you’re alone in the restaurant with him, and he comes twice a day every day?”
She laughs like I’m being ridiculous. “I know what it sounds like, but it’s not like that. He’s from Naples like my family, he’s in his 70s, and he’s lived in the neighborhood forever. He treats me like a daughter.”
Don’t love that, but okay.
“I know it’s not super successful yet, but I love it.” She’s glowing, her eyes bright. “I have so many ideas for specials, seasonal menus, a new dessert menu—”
She stops and blushes when she catches me watching her.
Her excitement would be contagious if I were into that kind of thing. I feel sorry for her. She doesn’t realize what a failure her restaurant is or what she could be with better resources, better location, better business sense.
“It’d be nice to make some money too, princess. You need to move somewhere people can actually find you.”
She makes a pour-over coffee and hands me a tiny cup.
I take a sip and groan out loud. Fucking good.
She shakes her head, resolute. “I’m not leaving the neighborhood. I’ve been here for a decade now.” She holds up a hand before I can argue. “Don’t look at me like that, Vincenzo. I get to cook my food my way, and it makes people happy. That makes me happy.”
“But you could make more people happy if you were in a better space in a better neighborhood.”
She ignores me and sets an insulated lunch bag in front of me. “This is for you. I’m headed to the restaurant for the rest of the day. You’re welcome to stay here as long as you want.”
I look down at the lunch bag and back up at her. I don’t know what to say. “You made lunch for me to go? Are you trying to send a message?”
That breezy laugh again, the one that punctuates everything she says. “I did, but it doesn’t mean you have to go. I don’t know what your plans are, and I want to make sure you eat.” When I just sit there staring, she taps the lunch bag. “Promise me you’ll eat?”
I nod slowly, unable to form a coherent response.
She pulls a messenger bag over her shoulder, gives me a smile that could light up the entire borough, and heads out the door.
I sit there long after she leaves, staring at the lunch bag like it’s a live grenade.