Chapter 14 #2
Luca’s eyes pleaded with his uncooperative heart. “I thought we weren’t trying to make this any harder,” he said quietly.
Yeah, that ship fucking sailed. The moment you trusted me the way you did, the way you opened up to me, the way I was there for you, when you came back down.
“We’re not,” Oliver promised.
He was not going to cry. He was absolutely not going to cry.
“Okay, good.” Luca took a deep breath. “Cause I think you might’ve had the right idea.”
“Should I record that? Play it back for you when you become particularly insufferable, especially when you find out where I’ve put Nonna’s table?”
“What, you put us where?” Luca demanded playfully.
Had he ever imagined that Luca could be playful?
Not at the beginning, no. He’d been so serious, so buttoned-up.
So worried about doing the right thing all the time.
But he was breathing again, Oliver could feel it.
Instead of hanging on to that, he was going to go right back to holding all the burdens, Oliver knew it.
Couldn’t even blame him, because he knew this was how Luca was.
Maybe it was something, a feeling Luca would remember forever, that Oliver had given him a bit of a respite, even if it was only for a few weeks.
That, Oliver decided, would have to be enough.
“Trust me, you should be lucky I put you in at all,” Oliver retorted, keeping the same even, playful tone.
“Lucky, huh?” Luca raised an eyebrow. And before Oliver knew it, he was being picked up and carried to the bedroom, their meal and their work at least temporarily forgotten. And he was okay with that.
They wouldn’t get many more chances.
The next morning, Oliver couldn’t get the taste of the pasta, the remainder of which he’d scarfed down cold and delicious, when they’d finally returned to the table, mussed and satisfied an hour later, out of his mouth.
It lingered on his tongue and in his brain.
In his heart.
“I’m gonna try something,” he told Aaron, who had a good handle on the last real bake of the morning. “You need me for anything?”
Aaron shook his head. “I’m gonna finish these pastries and get some dough proofing for the afternoon commercial bakes.”
“Alright,” Oliver said and tucked himself into the back corner of the kitchen, pulling out parmesan from the big walk-in fridge and black pepper from the pantry, and put together his dough, twisting it and turning it with layers of butter he’d mixed with the rich cheese and the sharp spice of the pepper.
“What’s this?”
He looked up and Marjorie was standing there.
Either she and his mother were now sharing the same expression or they’d been talking.
Or, his mind supplied, they’re both on the same page because they love you, and they’re worried about you.
“Just trying out something new,” Oliver said.
She glanced down at the counter, at the empty plastic container of parmesan he hadn’t thrown away yet, and at the pepper next to it. “Trying some Italian recipes?” she asked.
“Sort of,” Oliver said. He really didn’t want to talk about this. It was just something he wanted to do because it was easier to keep his hands and mind busy than to dwell.
“Ah.” It was only one syllable but it was telling anyway.
Damn it, he did enjoy living in a small town. Except right now, apparently.
“If you need to talk about . . .well, about anything, you know I’m here,” Marjorie said. “Anything at all.”
Oliver rolled his eyes. “I’m fine.”
“It’s okay to not be fine,” Marge reminded him gently. Patted him on the shoulder. “Bring one of those to me when they’re done. They smell delicious.”
They tasted amazing too, Oliver nearly burning his fingers on the first off the tray when they came out of the oven twenty minutes later.
But the scorched roof of his mouth was worth it, because as he chewed, he fell right into that moment they’d shared last night. Luca had tasted just like this.
That, he decided, would also be enough.
Five minutes later, he brought one to Marge in the front, wrapped up in a napkin.
“I don’t want to talk about it now, and probably not in a few days, either,” Oliver said honestly as he handed her the pastry. “That’s going to have to be okay with you.”
“Anything’s okay with me,” she said, taking it from him. Took a bite. “Especially if you keep making stuff like this.”
Oliver smiled. “Good, isn’t it?”
“You going to tell . . .”
But she didn’t get the rest of the sentence out, because the front door swung open and there was Luca in the flesh.
Before Oliver had decided if he was going to tell him about his new creation.
“Something smells amazing,” Luca said, sniffing the air. “What is that . . .it almost smells like . . .”
Like you. Like the food you made us with your own two hands.
Oliver shrugged. Maybe it was better he knew—not everything, but some things. “I tried a new recipe,” he said. “Inspired by that pasta you made last night. Cacio e pepe pastry.”
He stole a flaky corner from Marjorie’s twist and handed it across the counter, ignoring her screech of protest. Luca popped it in his mouth, tasting it deliberately, giving it a long moment against his tongue before he swallowed.
“That’s really fucking amazing,” Luca said. “You’re so . . .”
They stared at each other for a moment, and for a moment, everything disappeared. Marjorie and her outrage, the bakery around them, Aaron in the back, the festival happening in two days, Giana and Enzo and all their problems.
Just for a second, it was just the two of them.
Oliver knew then that Luca loved him too.
Better, he thought, and also worse.
“Thanks,” Oliver said. “You guys ready for the festival?”
“I think so,” Luca said. “I swung by to give you something. You got a minute?”
“For you, yes,” Oliver said. “You want coffee?”
“Yeah.”
Oliver poured two coffees and at first he thought Luca wanted to sit in the cafe area—after all, it was nearly close, and they were empty, for the first time all day—but then Luca led him outside.
Behind his corner, where he leaned against the brick wall. Shot Oliver a look as he handed him his coffee.
“Thanks,” he said shortly.
“You gonna tell me what this is about?” Oliver asked gently.
Please don’t tell me you love me. For the love of God, don’t do it.
“I should have done this ages ago,” was all Luca said as he dug something out of his pocket and passed it over.
It was a piece of stationery from the Inn and scribbled on it was a recipe.
For focaccia.
“What’s this?” Oliver asked, frowning.
“Something I should’ve given you before,” Luca said ruefully. “I was stupid. Forgive me.”
But Oliver wasn’t getting it.
“Is there . . .something wrong with the focaccia I’m baking you?” he asked.
“No, not at all. It’s delicious. It’s just not—” Luca took a breath. Let it out. “This is my Nonna’s focaccia recipe.”
Suddenly, realization was beginning to dawn.
“You didn’t want to give this to me before,” Oliver said slowly.
“You don’t understand, they’re . . .” Luca hesitated.
“When she taught me the recipes, the family recipes, she swore me to secrecy. I think she might’ve even been tempted to perform a blood oath, she was that serious.
I was never to share them with anyone that wasn’t family.
But . . .” There was that burning look again.
The look that made Oliver catch his breath.
“But I don’t care. You’re . . .well, you should have it. That’s all.”
“Because I’m making focaccia for your aunt’s deli?” But Oliver asked it, knowing deep down, that wasn’t why. He just wanted to hear Luca say it.
“If that’s what you need to believe,” Luca said, “then yes.”
Oliver folded the recipe carefully and put it in his pocket.
They were quiet for a moment, sipping their coffee.
“You gonna put that on the menu?” Luca wondered.
Oliver didn’t need to ask what he meant. He knew. The cacio e pepe twist he’d created today.
“Seems like a good way to keep you around,” he said lightly, even though it was killing him.
Luca set his coffee down. Slowly. Deliberately. “Come here,” he said quietly and tugged Oliver into his arms.
Kissing him like he never wanted to let him go.
And Oliver? Well, he knew what that felt like.
Because he felt it too.
Luca walked into the deli the next morning, the day before the festival, and found his aunt staring at his cousin, who’d begun to prep the wall for the mural he was going to paint.
He’d wanted to get a head start, Enzo had said the day before after Luca had approved his sketches, because he knew with the festival happening tomorrow, they’d hopefully be busier and he’d have less time to work on it.
“What’s this?” Giana asked, directing the question not toward her son, but to Luca instead.
“I told you Enzo was going to do a mural. You saw the sketches, I’m assuming. I emailed them.”
“I didn’t,” she said stiffly.
Luca was watching Enzo’s back and couldn’t miss the way it tensed, under his T-shirt, at his mother’s words.
This had gone on long enough.
“Can I have a minute of your time?” he asked Giana.
“You’ve certainly taken a lot more without asking,” she grumbled.
He took her arm and nudged her toward the kitchen door. “Privately,” he said.
The door swung shut behind him. He hoped Enzo wouldn’t be listening in, but he knew better.
“What’s this about?” she asked.
He couldn’t deny his temper was a little closer to the surface right now.
It was probably how angry he was at fate, who’d set Oliver right in his path, the perfect person for him, even though he couldn’t hope to keep him in his life.
So he was generally pretty pissed off, and on top of that, he was sad, which wasn’t an emotion he normally indulged in.
But getting annoyed with Giana, even if she deserves it, doesn’t fix anything.
“Enzo’s mural? You don’t agree he did an incredible job on the sign?”
“That’s not it,” she said carefully. “That was just a sign. With chalk. No . . .no big deal if it didn’t work out.”