Chapter 6 #2
“Well, I can’t wait to taste it. I definitely don’t make a killer lasagna, but I can eat one.”
“No?”
Taylor winced. “Uh, I buy the frozen ones, at the store?”
Rocco laughed. “No coffee and Stouffer’s lasagna. You’re trying to kill me, aren’t you?”
He’d sprinkled the first layer of vegetables and cheese and was now repeating the motion with the pasta sheets.
Maybe, Taylor reasoned, it was better for him not to help, not when Rocco was so completely capable.
“Really, I’m not,” Taylor said, chuckling. “But anytime you want to come over and bake me a lasagna, a real lasagna, I’m not gonna complain. I’ll even pay you in wine.” He didn’t know good wine himself, but he remembered, because he couldn’t forget, what Rocco had liked during the wine tasting.
“Sounds like a good deal to me. Good food. Good wine. Good company.”
“You’re sure I can’t help?”
“I’ve got this. You’re doing the important part, anyway.”
“I am?” Taylor couldn’t believe it.
“Keeping me focused, but not too focused.”
Taylor opened his mouth to say it was just a lasagna, but he had a feeling that wasn’t what it was to Rocco.
“This matters to you, doesn’t it?” he asked.
Rocco glanced over at him, his hands still moving with those expert, quick movements.
“Yes,” he said. “I think of the couples who’ve celebrated twenty anniversaries at my parents’ restaurant.
Who, every single year, eat the same mushroom ravioli and it brings them back to the night they fell in love.
The grandfathers who bring their families in, passing their love of food to future generations.
How my cousin Luca and his husband Oliver put food on the menu of their restaurant that reminds them of all their best times. Food is a love language, you know?”
And the town had rejected Rocco’s attempts to show them that.
“That’s beautiful,” Taylor said, because it was. More than ever, he wanted to make this right, not just for him, because it would be a terrible thing to destroy the hope in Rocco’s eyes, the dream he held of continuing his family’s tradition.
Rocco shrugged, but he could tell how much the rejection had hurt him.
“And,” Taylor added, because he’d never known when to quit, “this town is perfect for that. I know they haven’t all put their best feet forward, but they will, and you’ll see. There’s nothing more important to this town than tradition and nostalgia.”
“That’s why I bought this place,” Rocco said. “And I hope you’re right.”
He sprinkled on the last layer of cheese.
“I am,” Taylor insisted. He didn’t know when Rocco’s fight had become his, too, but it had.
“Now to get this in the oven,” Rocco said.
Rocco was not particularly big or bulky with muscle, so Taylor watched with more than a little surprise as he hefted the huge, heavy pan effortlessly and slid it into the oven.
And he couldn’t deny that Rocco’s hidden strength, both inner and outer, was more of a turn-on than he’d anticipated.
Rocco closed the oven door with a firm thump and turned to Taylor. “Now I know you don’t drink coffee, but I could use a latte. You can’t approach a holiday without plenty of caffeine in your system.”
Taylor’s brain must still be short-circuiting over how much he wanted to feel those unexpected muscles Rocco was hiding under his sweater, because he said, “Why don’t you make something I’d like.”
A wide smile broke over Rocco’s face, filled with so much delight, Taylor would agree to try coffee a dozen or so times, just to witness that look on his face again.
“You mean it?”
A better man probably would have goat-cheesed out of this, once he saw what it meant to Rocco, but Taylor nodded.
“I got you,” Rocco said, rubbing his hands in excitement. Taylor followed him out of the back kitchen and behind the counter, watching as Rocco flipped switches and turned the enormous espresso machine on.
“You like sweet,” Rocco stated, rather than asked.
“Yeah,” Taylor said, blushing a little. Maybe he should’ve grown out of his sweet tooth, but he never had.
“Oh, I’ve got sweet for you, baby,” Rocco said, shooting him a teasing look. He worked the machine like he’d done it a thousand times before, pulling levers and grabbing chilled ingredients from the fridge under the counter by feel alone.
Finally, he set a tall glass in front of Taylor, the top covered in a towering mountain of whipped cream, dusted with tiny flecks of spice.
Taylor picked it up, sniffing at it as Rocco made himself a coffee next. “It smells good,” he said.
Carefully, he sipped, whipped cream smearing across his upper lip.
To his surprise, the harsh acidity of the coffee he’d tried before didn’t hit him this time.
This was full and rich and mellow, somehow all at the same time.
And sweet too, but with a bit of almond cookie taste, the cookies his mom had always baked for Christmas.
The ones he’d missed, like a gnawing toothache.
Rocco was watching him carefully, while trying to pretend he wasn’t, as he worked the machine for his own coffee.
“So?” he asked. “Is it terrible? You can spit, you know. You don’t have to swallow if you hate it.”
“Maybe I should,” Taylor joked. “God, it’s absolutely fucking terrible, Rocco.”
Disappointment flashed across Rocco’s face. “It’s okay,” he mumbled. “And I’m sorry, I was so sure . . .”
“I’m kidding. It’s really, really good.” Taylor immediately regretted the joke. He hadn’t anticipated how much Rocco would want him to like it, or how much he’d detest that look in his eyes.
“Really?”
It was banished in seconds, replaced by joy.
“It’s different, somehow. Sweeter, yeah, but not fake sweetness, like . . .I don’t know, a cookie my mom used to make. Her famous almond cookies. And it’s not bitter or acidic. Just rich and full and yet super mellow.”
“Well, yeah, I spring for the good beans,” Rocco said. Then elbowed him suddenly in the ribs, laughing, and then Taylor was laughing too, because you couldn’t hear Rocco make that sound of pure delight and not be seduced into joining in. “God, you’re the worst. You had me going there.”
“Yeah, I sure did.”
Rocco smacked him again but this time his hand didn’t move but lingered. Warm and firm against Taylor’s chest. He swayed closer and God, Taylor would barely have to move to kiss him. He’d just need to tip his head down and get lost in the magical pull of those passionate, dark eyes . . .
He jerked back. Holding the coffee between them like a personal shield.
It would be so easy to let himself have this. Rocco was a thousand times more attractive, inside and out, than Michael, and look how easily Taylor had let Michael lead him.
He couldn’t let that happen again.
Especially not now, when what he’d worked so hard for was finally about to unfold—but only if he played his cards right.
“Uh, sorry,” Rocco said. He gestured towards the kitchen. “You want a bowl to throw your bagged lettuce into?”
“Yeah, that would be great.” Taylor took another drink of the coffee. It was so good, but really, he wasn’t sure if it was the man or the actual beverage anymore.
Maybe Rocco could have poured him that wretched instant coffee crap and he’d have liked that too.
“That’s the latte nobody wanted,” Rocco said casually as he pulled a big metal bowl off one of the shelves stacked with gleaming equipment.
“What? Really?”
“Yep. I kept it on the menu, but God forbid, it’s not pumpkin spice.”
“I’ve never had pumpkin spice, but I can’t imagine it being better than this. Anyone who doesn’t want this is crazy.”
Rocco shot him another one of those brilliant smiles. “Thank you for saying that.”
“It’s just the truth.”
“Let’s make your salad,” Rocco said and Taylor knew he was changing the subject. Wondered if it was his version of goat cheese.
If it was, he was going to respect it. “Sure,” he said, grabbing salad ingredients, pulling various things out of the bag.
“Oh, look at you with a fall culinary theme,” Rocco teased.
“This is stuff the lady at the store said would be good,” Taylor said, dumping it all into the bowl.
Lettuce. Cucumber chunks. Pumpkin seeds.
Dried cranberries. She’d also suggested adding goat cheese crumbles, and Taylor had barely managed to keep a straight face as he’d told her he’d better leave those out.
“It looks great,” Rocco said.
“Yeah, it does,” Taylor said, pleased with himself as he tossed it with the dressing. He hadn’t wanted to slack, even if this was technically just a salad from a bag, not when Rocco was making something delicious from scratch.
“So, tell me who’s coming to this thing,” Rocco said, leaning against the counter, sipping his coffee.
“You know Mik, right?” Rocco nodded. “He hosts. And there’s a few other singles who like to stop by.
Griff used to, but now that he has Logan, he might not.
I invited Mason, from the foundation, ’cause I know he’s on his own.
And Scott, who sells the baby blankets at the arts and crafts fair.
Hank, I think his name is, told me he might stop by too. ”
“Oh, cool. Sounds like it’s a good event.”
“I’ve been happy I started it a few years ago.”
“Wait, you did?” Rocco looked surprised. “Why didn’t you tell me?” An alarm went off and he added, “I gotta check the lasagna, but seriously, you didn’t mention you started it.”
“I . . .” Taylor smiled. “I don’t know why I didn’t. Guess I’m used to being behind the scenes. It’s what I’m good at.”
“Trust me, you’re good at lots of things,” Rocco said.
“Now this is so much better than Rebecca’s mom’s dinner,” Rocco said, as he perched on one of the tall stools in Rudolph’s, a plate of turkey and stuffing and about a hundred amazing looking sides on the table in front of him.
“Yeah?” Taylor looked happy, too. He’d greeted half a dozen people, including Scott, who made the baby blankets he was selling at the arts and crafts fair, Mik, and now Mason, and so many of them had said, offhandedly or pointedly, how great this get-together was for them.