Chapter 8
Night Six
Marco had been afraid that service would pass by, on this last day of Andrew’s official employment at Nonna’s, like a snail crawling.
Instead, it felt like he could barely take a breath.
Jose called out sick, sounding genuinely awful, and Marco spent most of the evening on the line, in a much closer supervisory role like the one Jose usually held.
Then they ran out of veal.
Then Marco had to duck into the back prep kitchen and whip up a new batch of marinara.
He didn’t really have time to stick his head into the pastry kitchen, even though it was right next to the prep kitchen, but he did it anyway.
Andrew and Daniel were both working—this time it was Daniel whipping cream, as Andrew bent over a cutting board, absorbed in a delicate dissection of some fruit.
Clearly, they were busy too, so Marco went back to the prep kitchen and his vat of marinara.
He looked up what felt like only a few minutes later, and it was actually a whole hour later. Nearly close, in fact.
“God,” Marco said, scrubbing a hand across his face, “is it almost nine already?”
“Yep,” Elijah said. “And there was only a minor riot about the veal.”
“We’ll get our delivery tomorrow,” Marco said. “I called in and double-checked.”
Nonna’s were all closed on Mondays. Dario always received the deliveries, and he’d already promised Marco that no matter what emergency cropped up, he’d leave Marco be.
He’d been looking forward to sleeping in—hopefully, if everything went well, with Andrew next to him. Waking with him for the first time. Taking him out to his favorite diner for breakfast, their first official date.
“Good,” Elijah said. “You go on, Chef. I got this cleanup. I know you’ve got other things going on.”
Marco raised an eyebrow, wondering just how much the rest of his staff knew about his situation with Andrew. Dario wouldn’t blab, but they all had eyes, didn’t they? And they all talked and gossiped plenty.
“It’s all good, Chef,” Elijah said with a reassuring nod.
Maybe it shouldn’t matter that his staff approved—but it did. They were all a family, because like Marcella had told him, he had absolute shit boundaries.
He was already in the locker room, getting his stuff together, when Andrew walked in.
“Hey, Chef,” Andrew said, amusement glimmering in his blue eyes.
“I . . .” Words died in his throat as Andrew walked right up into his space and cupped his cheek.
“Busy night?” Andrew’s tone was still teasing.
“Yeah. No Jose and of course, half a dozen problems that I had to take care of—but you know how it is.” Andrew would, of course. He’d co-owned a restaurant. He’d always understand if there was some issue that only Marco could solve.
Would it be easy? Marco never assumed that it would be. But even the shitty moments would be worth it.
“I do,” Andrew agreed. He put a hand on Marco’s chest. Through the thin cotton of his T-shirt, Andrew’s touch burned. Made his pulse accelerate. “So, what’s the plan?”
You. Me. A bed.
But this wasn’t just about sex; if it was just an itch they needed to scratch, they could’ve done all that without paperwork.
“I was thinking my place,” Marco said. “I want to hear all about Paris. And Sweden. Even Barcelona.”
“That all?” Andrew’s eyes twinkled.
“Well, not all. I was promised dessert, after all.”
“I did, and I intend to deliver.” Andrew gestured down at the white box in his hands. “I was wondering should I bring a bag?”
“Yes,” Marco said quickly.
“Good, ’cause I already packed one.” Andrew pressed a swift kiss to Marco’s mouth and turned towards his own locker, carefully setting the white box on the bench. Unbuttoning his chef’s coat, tossing it in the big laundry bin in the corner.
Marco tried not to look as Andrew stripped down, pulling on a pair of jeans and another T-shirt from his locker.
He filled out both perfectly, and Marco’s cock throbbed at the thought of stripping him out of them, slowly.
“I’m going to . . .uh . . .go check on everything. Make sure nobody needs anything,” Marco said uselessly.
Andrew shot him a grin. “Give me another minute. I’ll meet you outside?”
Marco nodded.
Detoured back into the kitchen, finding it clean and dark and empty. Dario’s office was equally empty, the man himself in the dining room, adjusting the glasses again.
“You really need to send out a memo about that,” Marco said to his brother.
Dario looked up. “I know,” he said wryly. “Or I could keep coming out here and doing it every night.”
“Whatever floats your boat. The paperwork’s all done?”
Dario nodded. “You’re free to do whatever you want with him. Just . . . you know, don’t tell me about it. And don’t make out in the walk-in.”
“I wouldn’t,” Marco muttered. He wouldn’t.
“I know,” Dario said, laughing. “Really, though, we’re happy for you, brother.”
And Marco realized as he let himself out the back door that they all were.
Andrew was waiting there, a duffel bag slung over his shoulder. “There you are. I got exciting news for you.”
Marco raised an eyebrow.
“I quit.”
Andrew laughed, and Marco had to join him.
Then Marco had to kiss him, cradling his cheeks between his palms, letting his lips say everything he wasn’t sure he trusted his mouth to say. Yet, anyway.
“You seem pretty happy about it, too,” Andrew teased.
“Fucking relieved. Fucking grateful, too,” Marco said gruffly. He reached down and took Andrew’s hand, tugging him in the direction of the path.
“You wanna go make out in the forest again?” Andrew wondered.
“I actually live just over that ridge there,” Marco admitted. “Two nights ago when you brought us out here, I thought for one crazy moment that you were dragging me to my house.”
“Oh, why would I do that?” Andrew asked innocently.
But Marco knew nothing about that question was innocent.
“Thought you might want to do more than just kiss me,” Marco said. Two of them could play at this game.
“I do,” Andrew said in a low, rough voice. “Tell me your house is close.”
Two summers ago, when he’d started walking this way more often, he’d installed little solar lights every few dozen feet, and he was glad of them now, because he wasn’t watching where he was going at all. Too eager to get to their final destination.
“Yeah, right over here,” Marco said, gesturing with his free hand.
He could see the front porch light just peeking from between the trees as they climbed over the ridge.
“It’s lucky I didn’t know this was here. I might’ve said screw the paperwork and well . . .”
“Screwed me?” Marco teased. He tugged him onto the porch and instead of unlocking the door, kissed him again, hard.
Andrew groaned and their hips were colliding as Marco pinned him to the door. Took his mouth with all the frustration of the last week.
They were both breathing hard when Marco finally lifted his head.
“And if I’d known that was waiting for me . . .maybe I would have seduced you in the walk-in,” Andrew joked.
“Come in,” Marco said, pulling out his keys with trembling fingers and letting them into his little house.
It wasn’t anything special, but he’d taken his share of the profits of the Nonna’s line of sauces from the last few years and had it built exactly to his specifications.
Open spaces. A living room with vaulted ceilings melting into a spacious kitchen with long bare countertops and top-of-the-line appliances. His bedroom, tucked in the back, a bathroom attached with a big shower and an even bigger bathtub he really enjoyed relaxing in at the end of a long day.
“I really like your house,” Andrew said, turning to take in every bit of the living room. “It reminds me of you. All that exposed wood, the lush textures. It’s quiet and comforting but challenging too.”
“Thanks.”
“I was always surprised you didn’t leave. I kept thinking, I’ll run into Marco someday in Rome or Marseilles or London. But I never did. Imagine my surprise when I came home, and here you were, still.”
“You were thinking about me, huh?” Marco teased.
Andrew shot him a hot look. “Yeah, I was. It’s funny. Right now, I think we’re both right where we need to be.”
It was easy to pull him close then, Andrew pressing his body against Marco’s. It was even easier to lean down and kiss him again. The kiss spun out between them, at points soft and tender and at others wild and passionate.
Marco was seriously considering tugging them towards the couch when Andrew finally lifted his head.
“Actually,” he said, “I think the place we’re both supposed to be is your bed. But first—”
Marco didn’t need a reminder that they’d both worked a long, hard shift today.
“You want to take a shower?”
“With you? Yes,” Andrew said. “Lead the way.”
In the bathroom, Marco flipped on the water nice and hot, and then there was no way to avoid what came next.
Marco expected some hesitation from Andrew—he was feeling a little nervous about stripping down in front of Andrew, the man he was rapidly developing complex feelings for—but after glancing around the spacious bathroom, Andrew wasted no time at all toeing off his shoes, pulling off his T-shirt and then unbuttoning and then unzipping his jeans, letting them drop.
Marco nearly swallowed his tongue. Trying not to look. But looking all the same, because looking anywhere else was impossible.
“I keep thinking I’ll lose my Spain tan, but it seemingly persists,” Andrew said, Marco’s fingers still tangled in the hem of his shirt, hesitating to pull it up.
Maybe he wasn’t self-conscious because he looked like that. All lithe muscle dipped in golden sunlight, a trail of hair leading down to his tight blue boxer briefs.
Then, like it was nothing, he tucked his fingers under the waistband and tugged it, no shame whatsoever.
“You look like you’re about to swallow your tongue,” Andrew teased, leaning over, fingers brushing Marco’s, still lingering on the hem of his shirt.
“What I’m about to do is fall to my knees and praise God—or maybe Satan—that you look that fucking good,” Marco said honestly.
Andrew laughed.