Chapter 4 #2
For a second, I have no idea what he’s talking about. Madly, my brain scrambles, going straight to some place that involves Luca’s hands on my body, his shirt getting torn away, and just those suspenders on over his gorgeous pecs and rock-hard abs.
“Oh. The makeup.” That’s right. I came in full, heavy makeup again, along with a long black skirt, black blouse, and black flats so I could be on my feet for more than a few minutes without dying.
“I like it. It’s very artistic.”
It’s a good thing I’m not just artsy when it comes to baking. I’m actually fairly good at painting and drawing. I can’t sing to save my soul, and I’ve always wanted to try sewing, yet never have, but makeup? That’s pretty much just painting on a personal canvas.
He seems suddenly flustered. He sticks his thumbs in his suspenders but doesn’t pull them or snap them. He just leaves them there.
“So… pie?” I say.
“I hope it’s okay that we use store-bought crust.”
I gape at him. He has to be joking. But his face is impassive, and he doesn’t crack even the smallest smile. “That’s like… like blasphemy when it comes to pie,” I gasp.
“You’re pretty serious about this, aren’t you?”
Shit. “I just thought you’d have the basics.”
He snorts. “I’m a former chef. Of course I have the basics.”
“So we’re not using store-bought?”
“Never.” He winks at me, and I nearly swoon for real. “As you said, that’s blasphemy.”
Over on the record, the song changes to something upbeat with a good dose of hostile aggression behind it. The kind of song that embeds itself in your brain for an eternity. “Is this old?”
“A few years.”
“American?” I ask.
He hairy eyeballs me like I’m speaking blasphemy. “Nah. British.”
“I still can’t believe you like this.”
“Why? Because I’m old?”
Uh, hole, if you could just spontaneously open up right here in the incredible kitchen and gobble me up, I’d really appreciate it.
It’s even worse when the words are right there in my mouth to tell him that he’s not nearly that old.
Not out of my age range, at any rate. And fuck.
That’s a full fuck right there. Not just a fugget.
I force myself to choke on the words. Instead, I say, “I just don’t meet many people who would like this kind of music. ”
“I also like metal and rock.”
“They kind of go hand in hand, right?”
“And country,” he adds.
“Is there anything you don’t like?”
“Brussels sprouts and assholes.”
“Together?”
“Decidedly separate.”
“As in assholes or assholes?” I went there. I did it. This is getting wild, just like last night’s conversation. “Show me some moves,” I blurt, trying to cover up my embarrassing slip-up.
“Dance moves or cooking moves?”
I didn’t anticipate this. “Both? But dance moves first?”
Luca walks across the kitchen to grab a remote that turns a big TV on.
I didn’t even notice the TV before. It sticks out pretty decently on the brick wall at the far side—the only part of the house that isn’t timber.
I just didn’t look in that direction. I was too busy being entirely too captivated by Luca.
He types something in and gets a music video loaded up.
He has to stop the record before he starts the TV.
Then, in the middle of the kitchen, he strikes a pose that perfectly imitates the guy on the screen.
The guy on the screen is hot in all his angry defiance, but he has nothing on Luca.
Especially not when Luca starts the video and copies the guy’s moves exactly.
They’re wild, all over the place, and erratic, and Luca has them down.
I’m taken straight back to my teenage years, and holy freaking pies.
I’m in love.
Well, not really.
But kind of.
I’d panic if I weren’t laughing. Luca’s not trying to be sexy, but of course he is. I can’t believe he’s letting me see this. I’d rather have a fourteen-foot snake devour me whole than dance in front of another person. Even if I were good. Slick sweat forms on my skin just thinking about it.
Luca either doesn’t care or he’s fresh out of fucks to give.
He’s vibrantly alive, jerking, spasming, and gyrating his hips, standing on his toes, and falling all over the place.
If this is us making pies, then he’s my new favorite flavor.
Especially when the song goes on for a few minutes.
It’s not all that cool in here, and Luca’s moving crazy fast. His black shirt starts to stick to his muscles, outlining a body so jacked that I’d bet on him having a personal trainer.
He probably does. He mentioned something about physical therapy last night.
If he doesn’t, then he has the discipline of an ancient Roman legionary.
Don’t get me started on that fantasy.
Shit, damn, shit.
The song finally ends, and Luca comes to a stop. He’s not breathing heavily, which speaks to his insane conditioning, but he’s pretty much wringing wet.
He throws his head back and laughs, melting me into a wetter puddle than he is. My ovaries pretty much get lockjaw from taking in the sight in front of me.
There’s a good chance I may have some kinks I knew nothing about before now.
Sweaty man? I normally would have said eww, but Luca’s checking that box for me.
I did notice the guy in the video spitting something at one point, and that’s a big ick, but if Luca did it?
My ovaries would be giving a standing ovation, my vagina would be licking the bars of its cage, and I’d one thousand out of ten be here for it.
No. That’s a hard no. If the pie’s the limit, that’s the limit.
Keeping an open mind is always a good thing, though. Isn’t it?
“I should probably go shower,” he says.
Yeah, me too. Or stand in front of a fan to cool off the blistering heat that currently has my whole body smoldering.
“If you show me where I can find the stuff I need, I could start on this.” I’m not going to lie.
Having a complete run of this kitchen makes me excited.
Just not as excited as I would be if Luca were standing right beside me, shedding his shirt to cool down, tipping my face up, and looking at me as though I were the only person in the world.
Quick. Think about something else. Fast. And… go. Anytime now. Here we go.
My dad would love this place.
That’s it. Very good.
It would be his dream come true to bake in a commercial kitchen with all the state-of-the-art appliances. We make our family bakery work, but a lot of the equipment is older than him. Nostalgic, yes, but not always the most functional.
He points to a huge pantry beside a massive stainless steel fridge.
It’s definitely industrial. I like that it doesn’t blend in with the cupboards, which are black and sleek.
There are distinct stations in here, including more than one oven, a cooktop, numerous prep tables, a wine cooler on the far end, and two massive hammered bronze vent hoods that don’t match anything at all but are stunning works of art in themselves.
“You’ll find everything in there.” But he doesn’t leave, though. Instead, he hops up on the counter, crosses his feet at the ankles, and leans forward on his elbows. A sweaty lank of jet black hair falls in his face.
There’s absolutely no way he should be this hot when he looks like he just took a dip in the lake outside; he’s that drenched.
He shouldn’t be hot for any reason. He’s sixteen years older than me, and he’s Dad’s taboo best friend and all that, which I can’t seem to force my brain to remember.
He shouldn’t be.
But he is.
To the point where I can literally feel every thirsty thought I’ll ever have over the course of an entire lifetime crawling up into my brain, ready to make themselves known.
“I have to ask…” His voice startles me out of a lust-filled fog. “Even with all that makeup on, you look young.”
“I’m thirty,” I blurt. It’s what my fake ID says, but good god. It’s only a ten-year difference. No biggie, right?
Shovel, meet the hole I’m digging myself, deeper and fuggeting deeper.
He blows out a sigh. “That’s still very young.”
“Thirty in dog years, so that actually makes me somewhere around two hundred or something,” I quip.
He grunts, but he can’t keep it from turning into laughter.
“You’re a really good dancer. Really, really good.” So good that I can’t think of proper words to make a compliment. I just have to repeat the same one.
“Yes, well, when you’re stuck here all day with not much to do, it’s surprising what you can come up with.
There are only so many hours of the day I can work on physical therapy or hit my home gym.
Or when that’s wrapped up, ice plunges, bird watching, swimming, snowshoeing, mushroom picking, etcetera, etcetera. ”
I don’t know anyone who actually says etcetera or pulls a face as soon as they do, grinning at their own jokes.
Is it possible that Luca is just a massive, adorable nerd? That just adds another point to his hotness scale, which is already tipping far, far to the more hotness than I can handle before I implode and do something entirely stupid and utterly regrettable side of the scale.
I’m someone who doesn’t usually find anyone attractive until I get to know them.
Yes, there’s in-your-face beauty and hotness, but it’s easy to dismiss those after appreciating their artistic aura and moving on.
Humor and kindness always score way higher for me.
There’s nothing less attractive than having a gorgeous face and a smoking hot body yet being a total asswad.
“I probably shouldn’t be telling you half of this,” he muses. He has to wipe away a few beads of sweat that trickle down from his hair and wander dangerously close to his eyes.
“I don’t mind. I also signed an NDA, so you’re good. My lips are legally gagged.”
“Tied. Gagging is for gag reflexes, which are in the throat,” he says.
The kitchen falls utterly silent as those words settle around us.
It’s not ten thousand, eight hundred, and sixty-seven point eight degrees of awkwardness in here at all.