44. Allie
Allie
My inner thighs clench every time I think about Rico going down on me in the kitchen. Not this kitchen, obviously—this is a professional establishment, and I’m fairly certain health inspectors frown upon that sort of thing.
And then there’s the other part—the way he came apart the second I took him in my mouth, a controlled demolition of the most emotionally iced-over man on the planet.
But what’s been gnawing at me all morning—besides the memory of his hands gripping my hair—is the fact that of all the contract terms he’s ignored, there’s one he hasn’t even tried to weasel his way out of.
The secrets.
He waits until post-orgasm to share them, as if that somehow makes it less of a thing, but he shares them.
First, he told me I was his first kiss. Then, this morning, after I swallowed every drop of his releases, he coolly dropped that he’d never had a woman go down on him before.
And considering my expertise in that department came strictly from books (and one very detailed family discussion that I will never recover from), I’m suddenly feeling pretty damn good about myself.
I haven’t shared a secret. And he hasn’t asked.
And if there’s one thing I’m realizing about my mysterious, emotionally walled-off husband, it’s that he’s full of contradictions. Layers I hadn’t expected.
I assumed he was experienced. He’s cold, he’s distant, he’s the epitome of a man who seems to have done it all and been unimpressed. And yet… I was his first kiss. His first blow job. His first relationship.
Ever.
And suddenly, so much about him makes sense.
The avoidance. The control. That every time I try to talk to him, he looks more eager to be locked in a room full of screaming toddlers than deal with the conversation.
He doesn’t know how to do this, and neither do I.
We’re two people navigating our firsts from opposite ends of the emotional spectrum.
Are we moving toward each other? Or just coexisting in the same house until one of us figures out how to walk away?
“Chef?”
Kai’s voice snaps me out of my downward spiral, and I blink, realizing I’ve been standing here, spacing out, while my sous chef waits for me to return to planet Earth. Probably not an impressive look for someone about to launch a new restaurant concept.
“Sorry, what?”
Kai points to the materials spread across the worktable in the kitchen's corner. “The debut? You know, that thing happening in three days where you show the city that Via Napoli isn’t just coasting on its name anymore?”
Oh. Right. That.
In seventy-two hours, I’m unveiling my new menu, my new concept, my new everything to Manhattan’s most insufferable food critics and socialites, and if they don’t leave raving about it, I’ll probably have to pack my knives and fake my death.
No pressure.
The Bennetti name ensured a sell-out night. No one in this city turns down an opportunity to say they rubbed elbows with one of Manhattan’s most powerful families, even if it’s just to see the wife of the quiet one debut her restaurant experiment.
I just hope they come for the food and not because they’re expecting some kind of exclusive access to the family’s influence.
I’ve invited everyone—Marco, Violet, Sienna, and yes, even Rico, though his response was a grunt at best, a text read but not answered at worst.
Kai taps the menu in front of me. “Do you want to go with the usual five-course for the debut tasting?”
A prix fixe-style menu—where the dishes are curated by the chef and served in a specific order, building flavors deliberately—was one of my biggest changes to Via Napoli.
It’s an experience, not just a meal. No chaotic ordering, no plates that don’t complement each other.
Each dish complements the last, the wine pairings carefully selected to enhance the flavors.
Sort of like… an orgasm. But for your mouth.
I look at the menu laid out in front of me, the courses meticulously planned, each dish designed to build anticipation before leading to the grand finale.
Yeah. It's oral foreplay.
Yup, now I’m back to thinking about my husband and how he still hasn’t RSVP’d.
I tap my pen against the menu drafts spread across the table, my teeth sinking into my bottom lip as I weigh my options.
One menu is a “safe” five-course, foolproof, almost unimaginable to mess up unless someone spontaneously forgets how to use a stove.
The other? A riskier, more baroque option that could either cement my reputation as a culinary genius or lead to a Yelp massacre if the execution isn’t perfect.
Decisions, decisions. Do I play it safe and be a coward? Or do I gamble with my career like I’m in Vegas on a three-day bender? Which, for the record, I’ve never experienced.
“What do you think?” I finally look up at Kai, who’s watching me with those obnoxiously disarming eyes of his.
He’s attractive. Objectively, unreasonably, ridiculously attractive. And if I were single—hell, even if I had met him a year ago—I would have definitely batted my lashes and tried to flirt my way into his good graces. But I’m not single. I’m married.
Happily? Debatable. But legally? One hundred percent.
My wedding and engagement rings, which I used to wear proudly, are now on a chain around my neck because the health department frowns upon wearing jewelry while cooking. It’s safer, sure. But it also means my marital status isn’t flashing in neon lights on my left hand anymore.
Kai leans against the counter, arms crossed. “Is your husband coming? I still haven’t met him.”
Oh, we’re asking loaded questions today? Great.
I ignore him and focus back on my menus because I can’t even answer that.
Rico hasn’t responded to my text, which I knew he wouldn’t, but the petty part of me that still believes in miracles had hoped.
All I got was the standard read receipt—cold, dismissive, and somehow still the most communicative thing he’s done all week.
Taking a deep breath, I skim both options again. The safe menu would be the smarter choice, but then what? I play it safe for the rest of my career? No. This is my debut. This is my name attached to the restaurant now. I either go big, or I go home and cry into a bowl of store-bought pasta.
“Knock, knock!”
A singsong voice interrupts my culinary existential crisis, and both Kai and I turn toward the kitchen entrance to see Sienna standing there, looking as effortlessly stunning as ever.
She’s pushing the twins in their double stroller, the two little angels wiggling and cooing like a Gerber commercial.
Sienna is the picture of a glowy, happy, put-together mom. Long golden waves cascading down her back, flawless skin, minimal makeup, and the mellow confidence that makes me question if I'll ever look that way when I have children.
She’s also nothing like the women I used to surround myself with—botoxed, designer-draped, and perpetually bored while their nannies did all the actual parenting. Sienna? She’s real. And she makes motherhood look... I don’t know. Nice.
“Hey, gorgeous ladies,” I coo, bending down to tickle the tiny little feet poking out from their rompers. The girls kick happily, their cheeks chubby and pink, their wisps of dark hair tied into teeny-tiny bows that could probably make a grown man cry from sheer cuteness.
Sienna clears her throat dramatically. “Oh. Hi Allie. Nice of you to acknowledge me, too.”
"Sorry, you can’t compete. They have chubby cheeks and the intoxicating baby smell that tricks people into wanting kids.”
Sienna smirks, but her attention flicks behind me, where Kai is still leaning against the table, watching us.
“Oh!” I wave a hand between them. “Sienna, this is Kai, my sous chef. Kai, this is Sienna, my sister—” I pause before the words in-law can slip out, because I’ve learned the hard way that in this family, there’s no such thing as in-law. “My sister, Sienna.”
Kai’s gaze flicks between us, clearly assessing how we share DNA. “Nice to meet you.” His smile is pleasant, comfortable. A complete opposite of my husband’s, which I’ve seen a grand total of nada.
And for some reason, that comparison makes guilt twist in my stomach.
It’s not that I want to compare them—it just happens. Kai is friendly, expressive, and easy to talk to. Rico is... not. And every time I catch myself noticing the difference, I feel as if I’m betraying my husband, even though he’s done absolutely nothing to warrant my loyalty.
“Are you okay?” Sienna tilts her head at me.
Shit. I’ve been staring at the floor, lost in thought.
“Yeah! Totally. What brings you by?”
“I thought I’d see if you wanted to grab coffee across the street. The girls do better getting out and having fresh air before their nap, and I have the day off.” She smiles at Kai awkwardly, which makes me wonder—does she think something is going on between us?
God, I hope not.
Yes, Kai is attractive. And yes, my husband treats me as if I'm an obligation. But I’d never cheat. Ever. I may not have the marriage I imagined, but I at least have my integrity.
“Sure,” I say, shaking off my thoughts. “Give me one minute.”
I turn back to Kai. “We’re doing the more elaborate menu.”
He grins, taking my chef’s coat as I shrug it off. “Great choice, Chef.”
Sienna watches the exchange with raised brows, and I suddenly feel the need to over-explain. “It’s totally professional. We’re just coworkers."
Kai deadpans. “You’re making it weird.”
I groan. “I am making it weird, aren’t I?”
Sienna bites back a smirk. “A little.”
“Right, let’s go,” I mutter, grabbing my purse.
We step out of the kitchen into the main dining area, where Vinnie sits in a booth, drinking coffee and reading The Art of War.
He's an odd duck, that one. Reads the most mysterious choices out there—for example, the one time I caught him reading one of Violet's novels.
Yeah, he wouldn't look me in the eye for a full twenty-four hours after that one.
He peers up as I approach. “We’re going across the street to the café.”