Chapter 35 #2
He may or may not be, but I doubt Dad will leave me alone in the house with Matteo. If it’s not my uncle left behind to keep an eye on us, it will be guards. Still, that means we’ll probably be eating by ourselves, at least.
When I find my father, it’s in his office just as he’s strapping a gun to his ankle. He’s wearing one of his best suits—one of the ones with thin kevlar sewn into the inside of the jacket. Uncle Mikhail is nowhere to be seen, and my father looks like he’s preparing for war.
“So it’s true,” I say, rather than my typical warm greeting. “You’re leaving? I just got home.” A few hours ago, but semantics. I can hear the disappointment in my voice, and judging by the frown on his face, so can he.
“I’ll only be gone for a few hours,” Dad reveals, standing up straight as he rolls his pant leg back down. “I don’t want to leave so soon after you’ve arrived either, but this meeting has been planned for months, dochen’ka. It’s important that I be there as Pakhan.”
My posture slumps, but I nod in understanding. “Matteo is going to make dinner tonight. I’ll leave some in the fridge for you.”
“Spasibo, Anya.” He lessens the space between us and sets his hands on my shoulders. “Uncle Mikhail will be with me, okay? I’m trusting you to be alone with Matteo, and I hope you will not make me regret this choice.”
My heart swells an almost prideful feeling, hearing his faith in me. I know we won’t be entirely alone, and that there will most certainly be eyes on the pair of us while Matteo is here, but it means a lot nevertheless.
“The guards won’t swarm in the room and hurt him if we hug, will they?” I ask, biting my cheek to keep from smiling.
“We’ll see,” he grumbles. His watch beeps and he looks down at it. “He’s here, and I have to go. I love you, Anya. Have a good time, okay?”
“I love you too, Papochka. I’ll see you when you get home.” Or, more likely, in the morning tomorrow. These meetings typically run long.
Dad doesn’t stick around to greet my friend, which is a little rude, but it also means he doesn’t stick around to threaten Matteo with his typical fatherly glares, snappish words, or warning looks.
Matteo grins at me as I let him into the house and show him into the kitchen.
He has two bags of groceries filled with cooking supplies and ingredients to put away, but he sets them on the counter instead of making a move toward the fridge.
“Are you hungry? We could do an early dinner if you are, or we can wait a while before I start cooking.”
“I’m hungry,” I admit a little reluctantly. I don’t want to put him to work as soon as he’s arrived, but I can’t deny that dinner sounds lovely right about now. “I didn’t eat enough lunch this afternoon. I was so preoccupied with getting settled in after traveling.”
“No worries. I’m always ready to eat,” Matteo tells me, wiggling his eyebrows with a grin plastered on his lips. “Early dinner, it is.”
I’m not sure why he seems amused by his comment, so I simply move the conversation along.
“Um, the pots and pans are right there,” I say, gesturing to the designated cabinets. “And the cooking utensils are in the drawer above them.”
“Sweet,” he quips, beginning to look for what he needs. “How many people am I cooking for?”
I swallow, remembering I haven’t told him that we’re alone yet. “Well, um, it’s just us.”
“Is it?” He looks up, his intense gaze meeting mine.
“There’s a meeting tonight, it’s a big thing.
It’s just us and the staff but they don’t eat with us, they have their own kitchen and options for food.
If you could make enough for my dad to have some when he gets home, that would be nice, though.
Oh, and maybe Grigory, if that’s okay? He’s going to make us something with chocolate for dessert. ”
“Well, if he’s feeding us something with chocolate, I have to cook for the man,” Matteo decides, nodding happily. “I’ll make enough for him and your dad. More pasta can never be a bad thing. I’ll get started, and we’ll have dinner in a half hour.”
“And maybe I can take you on a real tour after?” I suggest, smiling hesitantly. “My dad didn’t say anywhere was off limits this time, so I can show you everywhere you missed before. I know that made men like to have an idea of the layout whenever they’re somewhere unfamiliar.”
“A tour sounds great,” he agrees, beginning to pull food out of his cloth bags. “But not because I need to know your house’s layout for security purposes. I just want to see more of the place that you grew up in. I bet you have plenty of stories that go along with different parts of every room.”
“I don’t know if I have any good stories.
” I lift a shoulder in a half shrug. “But it would be nice to show you around anyway. We have a movie theater, and a game room that almost never get used anymore. Ivan and Dmitri used to love games. They were always so competitive but they still let me win at almost everything.”
“See,” Matteo says suddenly, snapping his fingers and pointing at me. “That’s exactly what I mean. That’s an adorable story about your home.”
My face goes warm and I lick my lips. “I guess you’re right.”
“I love hearing that,” he jokes, grinning.
“So, do I get to watch you cook?”
“Hell yeah, meraviglia. Pull up a chair, the Chef Matteo show is about to come on. My mouth is already watering, I should have had a snack before coming here.”
My mouth is watering too, but I’m not sure if it’s because I’m hungry.
In the end, it only takes one bite for me to agree that he’s been right all along. Grigory’s chicken parm is good, but Matteo’s is excellent. Martha clearly taught him everything she knows, at least about this dish in particular.
The crust of the chicken is crunchy perfection while the inside is still tender and juicy. The sauce is the perfect combination of robust, acidic, and sweet. And the cheese melts in my mouth—every bit of it pairing so well with the homemade pasta.
“So?” Matteo asks in anticipation. “What do you think?”
“I think I could eat this exact meal every day for the rest of my life.”
He beams and starts to dig into his plate. “I can’t wait to tell Martha. I’m going to text her right after we finish. She’s going to be thrilled.”
“You two text?” I ask with a laugh.
He grins wide. “Of course!”
I laugh again, shaking my head at his enthusiasm. Martha is fifty-six years old but apparently keeps up with twenty-one-year-old Matteo fairly well. He speaks about her more like a friend than an employee of his family. It’s obvious that she’s at home with the Morettis and it’s nice to hear about.
I almost don’t think I have any room left for dessert, but when Grigory sets a slice of decadent dark chocolate cake on the dining room table in front of both of us, I have no choice but to indulge.
It takes me twice as long as Matteo to finish my serving, but it’s worth every moment. Each bite made me fuller than the last, and I know there’s going to be a bit of discomfort hitting me soon, but I can’t seem to make myself care.
“Will you be disgusted with me if I ask for another piece?” Matteo jokes.
“I might not be able to watch you eat it,” I say through a chuckle. “But I wouldn’t judge you for it. That was amazing. Dinner, and the cake.”
He hums in agreement and looks like he may be debating getting up to go get another slice. The taste of chocolate is still fresh and sweet on my tongue as I lick my lips, sensing I’ve coated them while taking my last bite.
As I set my fork down, I feel soft, golden strands of my hair have escaped the low ponytail I put my hair in to eat without it getting in the way. The strands are brushing against my cheek but thankfully staying out of my eyes. Still, I try to tuck the locks behind my ears.
“You’ve got some…” Matteo trails off, gesturing to my face.
Before I can ask what he means, I feel the gentle caress of his fingers tilting my chin up. His thumb skims the corner of my mouth, slowly wiping away a dot of chocolate. My breath catches at his warm, slow touch. He’s so careful and so close.
My eyes flutter shut and then open, and suddenly I’m so glad that we sat next to each other at the table instead of across from one another. I don’t know if this moment would have happened if we hadn’t.
“There,” he murmurs.
His hand lingers on my chin, his fingers shifting down to caress my jaw softly. Our eyes meet with such intensity that time seems to slow. The moment stretches, and I can feel my own breath bouncing off his skin.
“Tell me you want me to kiss you again, Anya,” he begs, his hooded blood eyes pleading. “On the lips this time.”
My stomach bursts with uncertain nerves, but I don’t let the feeling stop me. It only takes two words to change my life forever.
“Do it.”
Matteo brings his other hand to my face, cupping it on both sides before leaning down slowly. I know he’s giving me time to change my mind, but I can’t and I won’t. The feeling that was holding me back before has vanished.
The second our lips connect, a spark of something warm and intense shoots straight through me. Love, desire, lust, bravery…whatever it is, it’s incredible and I never want it to end.
Greedily, I lean forward to push my hands into his shirt, gripping the fabric so hard that I wonder if I could rip it open at the buttons. He takes my cue of holding him close as a good sign and deepens our connection in an instant.
It’s a tender sort of heat that his kiss inspires, making my insides feel weak and gooey. My eyes are closed, a man is holding my face, he’s kissing me, and yet I can’t get enough. Because he isn’t just any man, he’s Matteo, and he’s all mine.
Weeks of tension, months of friendship, and caring for one another all leading up to this moment. Blood whooshes in my eardrums as my heart pounds against my rib cage. He tastes so sweet, just like the dessert we enjoyed together.
I lean fully into him, hoping he thinks I taste as good as he does. A little moan catches in my throat as he twists his head, changing the angle and kissing me even more passionately. I feel like my heart could burst—it’s never felt so full and warm.
I’m panting when we finally part, and he’s breathing harder too. I watch his chest rising and falling, mesmerized by the apparent effect I’ve had on him. Matteo drops his forehead against mine and lets go of my face at last.
“Tell me that’s not our last time doing that, meraviglia,” he rasps the request.
“It’s not our last time.” My hands leave his shirt and I smooth out the wrinkles I caused. “As long as you don’t want it to be.”
“I think I’ll always want to do that again.”
“I know I will.”