Chapter 10 #3
He didn’t do cuddling normally, didn’t have the time or the inclination, but he pulled Oliver in closer, running a hand down his bare back, reveling in the feel of his soft skin, the firm muscles under his touch.
“That was . . .great,” Oliver said with a happy sigh. “I’m glad we have absolutely no self-control whatsoever.”
Luca chuckled, the laugh pulled out of him by the wonder in Oliver’s voice. Like he’d truly believed they could resist and was pleasantly surprised they couldn’t.
“I suppose I was trying to be a gentleman,” Luca said.
“It’s more fun that you’re not always,” Oliver said slyly.
That was the worst of it, wasn’t it?
Here was someone, finally, who liked Luca for exactly who he was, didn’t want to change him, didn’t want him to behave differently, and wasn’t attracted to him for what he could bring to the table.
He’s not for you, Luca reminded himself again, but it was getting harder and harder to believe that was true when it felt so much the opposite.
“If that’s the kind of result I get from not being a gentleman, I’ll ditch the manners more often,” Luca said. To his surprise, meaning it.
“You still going to cook me dinner?”
Luca frowned. “Of course I am.”
“Then,” Oliver said, draping himself more firmly across Luca’s chest, “I see no issues. Gentleman in the kitchen—”
“Do not say freak between the sheets,” Luca ordered firmly, but Oliver was already laughing, and it was so easy, so goddamn easy, to just join him.
Twenty minutes later, they were back in the kitchen.
Oliver had returned to his perch, but wearing only his briefs and Luca’s T-shirt, which he’d stolen, without much protest from Luca himself.
Luca shot him a look as he turned the knob, lighting the gas flame on the burner. “You look good in it,” he said, even though it was, yes, kind of drowning him.
Honestly, the way Oliver looked in his clothes made him want to drag him back to bed all over again.
But he couldn’t, because now he really needed to make dinner.
“And you look good without,” Oliver said, sticking his tongue out as he picked up his wine. “Real good.”
“Thanks,” Luca said dryly. He normally wouldn’t ever do this, showboat in front of someone and try to cook with just a pair of jeans on—and his Nonna would be undeniably aghast at even the thought of it—but he’d never met anyone he liked as much as Oliver before.
And, well, he wanted Oliver to like him back.
Even if it was a terrible idea. Even if this whole thing had a built-in expiration date, he still wanted it.
So he basked, maybe a little bit too obviously, in Oliver’s admiration as he moved around the kitchen, cooking and preparing the filling and then beginning to roll out the pasta dough.
“So tell me more about this festival,” he said, as he worked. “Why does Giana think getting into it as a vendor will make a difference for the business?”
Oliver, still perched on the edge of the counter, one side of Luca’s T-shirt sliding off his shoulder, rolled his eyes. “Because she’s delusional. The vendor applications for the festival closed ages ago. She knows it too. She just thinks she can ask and I’ll give in.”
“Would you?” Luca hadn’t gotten the impression Oliver had a particularly soft spot for his aunt, but maybe he’d read the situation wrong.
“If she had actually sent in a proposal instead of just . . .please, Oliver, help me, because I need you to, maybe. As for the festival itself, yeah, it’s a pretty big deal.
Lots of vendors. Food and local arts and crafts.
That type of thing. Plus, lots of very silly love-themed events during the day, like a kissing booth and the dating game.
We get a lot of tourists during the weekend. ”
“So it would help,” Luca said, trying to approach this from a purely business angle.
“If things were better . . .yes, it might convince some people to try the food who might not normally,” Oliver acknowledged, but he didn’t sound very certain. “Don’t tell me she’s got her heart set on this. It’s less than two weeks away.”
Luca tested the thickness of his pasta and sighed, grabbing Oliver’s rolling pin and continuing to roll his pasta.
What he wouldn’t give for a real pasta maker right now, but he could hear his Nonna’s voice in his ear, telling him that back in the old country, they’d always done it by hand and he should stop being so lazy.
“She keeps mentioning it,” Luca acknowledged.
“Sounds like Giana,” Oliver said ruefully. “Once she gets an idea in her head, it’s hard to dissuade her. You know, I tried to convince her not to open the deli?”
Luca couldn’t say he was surprised.
“Let me guess, she wouldn’t budge.”
Oliver nodded. “Wouldn’t even listen.”
“Sounds like a Moretti,” Luca said wryly.
“And you’re all like this? All of you? All seven of you?”
“It would be great if there were only seven of us,” Luca said with regret. “It’s actually more like twice that. Marcella’s married with kids, Dario’s engaged, and I know he wants a family. Plus my parents, plus Ren’s parents.”
“Growing up, I always wanted a big family.” Oliver’s voice was wistful. “But it was just the three of us and then there were only two of us.”
“You’re close to your mom, though?” Luca had seen Joy Billings around the Inn a few times since he and Oliver had started dating, and there’d been a part of him that had wanted to introduce himself as more than just Giana’s nephew, but he’d stopped himself, because this wasn’t like that.
Maybe if he was staying . . .
But he wasn’t.
He knew he wasn’t.
“Oh yeah,” Oliver said, and the melancholy edge of his smile melted away. “Always. She’s the one who taught me how to bake.”
“And you’ve apparently eclipsed her,” Luca teased.
“It’s just easier for me to bake for her, though she still does some things at the Inn herself.”
“Uh-huh,” Luca said. Not convinced at all, but undeniably charmed by the fact Oliver was the only one in town who didn’t realize he’d become better than his teacher.
“So what’s the sauce you’re going to put these with?” Oliver said, and Luca let him change the subject.
He understood how prickly family could be, even when you were close. Even when you loved them without reservation.
He felt that way about his family all the time.
Which . . .it weighed on him that Matteo still hadn’t texted him back, and that Marco had been so close-lipped about everything.
What was going on? The sales for the last few days had been as expected, so it wasn’t that kind of disaster.
But there had to be one, Luca knew. They wouldn’t be so cagey otherwise. But then, he’d never expected them to keep whatever kind of mess they’d made to themselves, either.
“I thought we could go the typical route,” Luca said, “and pair the raviolis with a browned butter and sage sauce, but I decided to make my Nonna’s famous fresh tomato sauce. It’s the best.”
“That sounds amazing,” Oliver said, sipping his wine. “Did you hear from your dad, by the way?”
“No,” Luca said heavily.
“I’m sure everything’s fine,” Oliver said. But he didn’t sound particularly convinced.
Luca was definitely not convinced.
“I just don’t get it,” he said, putting a big sauté pan on the stove and drizzling olive oil in.
To roast the tomatoes, he needed medium heat and lots of garlic and fennel.
He added everything to the pan and then tossed it as it began to sizzle.
“When I’m home, they can’t come running to me fast enough. ”
“Doesn’t that get old though?”
Luca considered this. “Yes, sometimes,” he admitted. “But it’s . . .it gives me purpose, too, you know?”
“Do you feel like you don’t have a purpose if they’re not running to you constantly to fix everything?” Oliver asked, tilting his head.
Luca didn’t want to think about this, but Oliver was making him do it anyway.
“I’m just saying,” Oliver continued, his voice softening—God, how was he so damn sweet? Luca wasn’t sure he deserved it, at all, not when just a second ago, he’d resented him for bringing it up. “You’ve got plenty of purpose here.”
“Yeah, arguing with Giana about every single thing,” Luca grumbled. “Not much of a purpose.”
“It is if you save her business,” Oliver pointed out. “That’s what you came here to do.”
Luca shook the pan again, seeing the cherry tomatoes begin to blister and break down.
“So, if she asked really nicely . . .would you put her in the festival?” Luca asked. Because Oliver was right, he was here to save her business—and the upcoming festival was the best chance to get the word out that Nonna’s had made some significant changes.
Oliver shot him a look. “Really?”
“What if I asked you very nicely?” Luca teased as he moved to start slicing his fennel for the salad.
“I’d think about it,” Oliver said. “It’s not like these things are very official, but there are limits to what I can do.”
“Somehow, I find that hard to believe,” Luca said. “Everyone in this town practically worships you. The festival is about your family.”
“I’ll think about it,” Oliver said with a sigh. “I know she could use the help and I do want to give her that.”
“Even though you didn’t want her to start it in the first place?” Luca arranged the thin slivers of fennel on two plates, along with segmented orange, parsley, and a drizzle of olive oil.
“I just knew Enzo wasn’t interested in the business and she was starting it mostly for him.”
“It’s a problem,” Luca agreed. One he had yet to figure out how to solve.
But he would.
Ten minutes later, they were sitting cozily on the corner of Oliver’s small kitchen table, sharing the food he’d prepared. Oliver hadn’t bothered to put pants on, but he’d returned Luca’s shirt and found his own.
“This is delicious,” Oliver said, as he savored each bite.
They were all Nonna’s recipes, of course, the nostalgia and history of them rich in Luca’s mouth as he chewed and swallowed, but now, there was something new, too.
Was it Oliver? Was it the slightly different ingredients here?
He wasn’t sure.
“I’m so glad you’re enjoying it,” Luca said, meaning it. He reached out and squeezed Oliver’s bare knee.
Felt himself wish that things were different.
Felt himself accept that they just were.
“You’ve got no idea how much,” Oliver said with a grin.