Chapter 10
Oliver headed home just after four, after he’d finished cleaning up his empty bakery.
Marjorie had insisted, again, on taking the deposit by the bank, because, as she put it, he had “another hot date tonight.”
He did. He really, really did.
There was a flare of excitement in his stomach at the thought of Luca here, in his house, as he walked around, picking up the random clutter that always seemed to gather during the week, when he was at work more than he was ever at home.
It didn’t take him long to tidy up and then he moved onto the bedroom.
New sheets, definitely. He threw the dirty ones in the wash and pulled out the nicer high-thread-count set Joy had gotten him for Christmas that he never used because it seemed silly to bother for just him.
But it’s not just you, tonight.
After making the bed, he moved onto the kitchen.
Because he was a pro and there was nothing worse in the universe than a dirty kitchen, his was spotless.
There was nothing to be done there, except lean against the counter and imagine Luca in here.
Imagine what kind of delicious dinner he might prepare for him.
Definitely something Italian. Definitely something from one of his Nonna’s recipes.
In any other situation, Oliver might think he was pressing his luck. Surely, someone like Luca might save a Nonna meal for someone he really, really liked.
But Oliver wasn’t blind. He could see the light in Luca’s dark eyes whenever he glanced in his direction. The how and why still baffled him a little bit, but he knew Luca liked him a lot, and the sentiment was, without question, returned.
Sure, he’d been horny and Luca was attractive and he was attracted to him, but Oliver didn’t think he’d be doing this if that was all it was.
If that was all it was, he’d have suggested dinner out again. Or just meeting up later in Luca’s room, for a quick, yet totally satisfying, fuck.
This wasn’t just about sex.
Oliver knew it, and maybe that knowledge should fill him with apprehension, but it didn’t.
It filled him with excitement, instead.
He headed to the shower, wondering as he washed every inch of his body if Luca would still say he tasted sweet.
Or if the soap and water scrubbed away all the aroma from his day at the bakery. It hadn’t yesterday, and Oliver felt the burn of anticipation as he dressed.
Precisely at five p.m., there was a knock on the door.
Of course Luca was on time, exactly. Oliver should be relieved he wasn’t early.
He opened the door and Luca was standing outside, carrying a paper bag full of groceries and wearing a T-shirt and jeans. Oliver had never seen him look so casual, but he looked amazing.
So freaking good in fact, Oliver was proud he didn’t immediately suggest he remove Luca’s clothes with just his teeth.
“Hey,” Luca said.
“Come on in,” Oliver offered, opening the door wider. “I realize I should’ve asked you if you needed anything . . .”
“No,” Luca insisted with a bit of a smirk as he walked into the house. “I wanted to surprise you, anyway.”
“With?” Oliver asked archly as the door closed behind Luca. “I know you texted me if I liked mushrooms, and yes, as I said, I do. Chicken marsala?”
The smirk spread into a wide smile. “Like I’d ever be that predictable,” Luca said.
“Kitchen’s through here,” Oliver said, leading the way. He hopped up on the counter, letting his legs swing as Luca set his grocery bag down. “You just let me know what you need.”
“I’m sure I’ll find whatever it is.” Luca glanced around. “This is a nice house.”
“Small,” Oliver said. It was small, probably much smaller than any of the houses Luca was familiar with.
He’d done a little digging on his break today, and yes, the Morettis ran a set of very successful restaurants in Napa.
There was also a branded line of pasta sauces and antipasto spreads, sold in specialty markets and gourmet stores.
The Moretti family was, without question, definitely well-off, and even more so now that Luca had taken over the management.
“But it suits you,” Luca said, beginning to lift items out of his paper bag, starting with a bottle of wine.
“This was actually my parents’ first house,” Oliver said. “I was born here. We moved a few years after that, to a bigger house, but when it came up for sale, I thought buying it was a nice full circle feeling. Of course, I changed some things.”
“Like the kitchen,” Luca said, sounding amused. “You have an opener? Glasses?”
“Opener in this drawer,” Oliver said, sliding open the drawer underneath him and pointing, “and glasses up in that cupboard.”
It was sexy as hell to watch the utter competence in Luca’s movements as he opened the bottle of wine and poured some into the glasses.
“Yes, I did have the kitchen remodeled. And a few of the non-load-bearing walls removed. Paint. And new flooring. The seventies kind of owned this house before I bought it,” Oliver said, taking one of the glasses from Luca’s hand.
The wine was a rich, deep ruby color, and he had a feeling it would be really good.
Because Luca wouldn’t tolerate anything less.
“Well, I like it,” Luca said, like he was daring someone to argue with him. “Especially the kitchen. It’s not big, but it’s . . .well designed.”
Oliver lifted his glass and Luca met him halfway. “To a guy who knows how to give a real compliment,” he said. “Cheers.”
After taking a sip of the wine, he wasn’t surprised at all at the deep fruity flavor that bloomed across his tongue.
“This is really, really good. You got this here? In the land of sweet wine and muscadine?” Oliver raised an eyebrow, craning his neck to see the bottle’s label.
Luca flushed. “Well, to be honest . . .no.”
“No?” The second sip of wine was usually better, but in this case, it blew the first one right out of the water.
“I . . .uh . . .shipped some wine here from Napa,” Luca confessed.
“You shipped wine here?”
“In my defense,” Luca said, finishing unloading his bag, “I know there isn’t good dry wine here, and I didn’t know what I’d find in the stores, and I was planning on being here a few weeks. It’s sort of a habit—maybe a bad one?—to enjoy a glass of wine at night, as I review the books from the day.”
“It’s not bad,” Oliver said. “Especially not when you share your wine with me.”
“I can do that,” Luca said, tilting his head. Regarding him. “You like wine, then?”
“I like good wine,” Oliver corrected with a grin. “So, you gonna tell me what you’re making me yet?”
“Mushroom ravioli with a tomato sauce,” Luca said. “And a salad to start. You like fennel?”
“Love fennel. We don’t get a lot of gourmet cooking here, but in Charleston . . .that was the one thing I loved about it. The food.”
“I’ve never been, but it sounds like a great place to go.”
“Ugh, it was great for that. Not so great otherwise, and I don’t really miss it. But to be able to go to a really good meal every once in a while? That would be nice.”
“Rudy’s is it, then?” Luca asked as he opened a bag of flour, labeled as special for pasta.
“Wait,” Oliver said, “you’re going to make your own pasta?”
Luca shot him a look. “What do I look like? Someone who buys it?”
“Fair, fair, I just—”
“You literally just made your own puff pastry today, when everyone else I know gets it from a store.” Luca sounded amused as he scooped flour onto the counter.
“Apparently I’m not the only perfectionist in town now, but really, homemade pasta is the best.”
“I know.” He sounded smug now, and maybe if Oliver didn’t know him as well as he was getting to, he might’ve been turned off by all that arrogant certainty. But he knew more about Luca now. He knew there were depths to him. And it wasn’t like Oliver actually disagreed with him.
Plus, competence porn was totally a thing.
He settled back on his counter perch with his fucking fabulous wine and prepared to be turned on, just by watching Luca make pasta.
His hands were sure as he cracked eggs, sprinkled in salt and then, after whisking the wet ingredients together with a fork, began to slowly work in the flour using just those same strong, confident hands.
Oliver remembered the way they’d felt on his body last night, and he shivered a little, even more turned on than he’d expected.
Luca glanced up.
“You have great hands, that’s all,” Oliver said, aware of how inane and utterly crush-struck he sounded. He wasn’t even really ashamed of it.
“That’s all?” Luca teased. “You can’t just say that and nothing else.”
“You just . . .know what you’re doing.”
Oh, boy, did he.
“I’m not the only one,” Luca pointed out dryly as he continued to knead the bright yellow dough in slow, confident movements, the muscles on his forearms flexing in the most distracting way.
“You cook often?” Oliver asked. Wanted to picture him in his restaurants, at his kitchen at home. Wondered what it would look like, what Luca would look like, in it.
He knew he’d never see it, not in person, so maybe it would be enough to imagine it.
“Not as much as I’d like, honestly,” Luca said. “Though the week before I came here, our head chef at the main Nonna’s location . . .he had a bad breakup, got drunk on the Marsala, and I didn’t have a choice but to sub for him the whole night.”
“You cooked on your line all night?”
Luca grinned, all those white teeth flashing a bit like a wolf’s. “I was definitely out of practice. But no, I’m . . .I hate to say it, but I’m too busy to really cook the way I used to. The way I want to.”
“You’re welcome.”
Luca glanced over at him.
“For giving you an opportunity tonight,” Oliver teased.
“A generous soul,” Luca teased right back.
That was the problem, Oliver thought, as he watched Luca set the pasta dough aside and pull out a pan—for the mushroom filling, he said—he could not only imagine Luca in his own kitchen, making dinner for both of them, but he could see him like this, six months from now, even six years from now.