Chapter 10 Santino #2
"I'm not moving in now," she agrees easily.
"But eventually I will, after we're married, right?
We might as well prepare." She opens my closet despite my objection, and I hear her gasp.
"Oh wow, this closet is huge! You have so much room!
Have you ever considered organizing by color instead of type?
It's much more efficient and visually appealing. "
"My closet is already organized. Perfectly organized."
"By type, sure. Suits together, shirts together, pants together. But color organization is better for finding things quickly. I’ll fix it for you. You’ll love it!" She's running her hands along my suits, examining the fabrics. "These are beautiful, by the way. Armani?"
"Some of them." I'm gritting my teeth now.
"Very nice. Quality fabrics." She pulls out several empty hangers, measuring space with her eyes. "I'll need about this much space for my things. Maybe a bit more. For dresses and blouses and coats. Where should I put my shoes?"
"At your house. Your shoes should stay at your house."
"Eventually they'll need to be here though." She's examining the closet floor now, clearly planning the logistics. "This space is good. I can fit maybe twenty pairs here. The rest can go in the guest room closet for now until we figure out a better system."
"There is no 'for now.' You're not moving your shoes in. You're not moving anything in yet."
"Not yet," she agrees cheerfully, completely unfazed by my protests. "But soon! So we might as well prepare and plan ahead, right? That's what smart couples do." She walks back out to the hallway. "I should bring in my garment bag. Where did you put it?"
I'm still holding it, I realize. Like a complete idiot, I've been standing here holding her garment bag while she systematically takes over my apartment.
She takes it from my hand, walks back to the closet, and hangs it up among my suits like it belongs there.
"There. See? Looks good already." She steps back, admiring the effect of her garment bag hanging next to my tailored suits. "We blend well together. Our styles complement each other."
"Liana." I need to regain control of this situation.
"Hmm?" She turns to face me, all innocence.
"You need to take all of this and go home. Right now."
"But you invited me for dinner," she protests. "I came all this way."
"For dinner. Not to move in. There's a significant difference."
"I'm not moving in! I keep telling you that. When I actually move in, you’ll know it." She walks past me again, heading back toward the kitchen now. "I'm just bringing a few things for convenience. For future visits. What are you making? It smells absolutely amazing."
I follow her. "Osso buco."
"Oh, fancy! I love osso buco." She's already in my kitchen, lifting pot lids without asking, examining my cooking. "How much longer until it's ready?"
"Don't touch those—" I start to protest.
"Is this the risotto? My Nonna used to make risotto every Sunday." She picks up my wooden spoon, the one I've been using to stir carefully. "She stirs it constantly, like this. Are you supposed to stir it constantly? I can never remember the technique."
"I know how to make risotto. I've been making it correctly."
"I'm just trying to help! Learn your methods." She stirs vigorously, breaking up the creamy texture I've been carefully developing.
"More gently," I say, trying not to snap. "The technique requires gentle stirring."
"Like this?" She stirs again, still too aggressive, still wrong.
"Here." I take the spoon from her hand, my fingers brushing hers. "Like this. Gentle circles. You're coaxing the starch out, not beating it into submission."
"That's what I was doing." She sounds genuinely confused.
It absolutely was not what she was doing.
"Why don't you open the wine?" I gesture to the bottle on the counter, needing to give her something to do that won't ruin dinner. "Let it finish breathing."
"Okay!" She picks up the bottle with both hands, examining the label closely. "Barolo. Very nice. Very expensive too, from the looks of it."
"I thought you'd appreciate quality wine."
"I do appreciate it! Although I should warn you, I'm not much of a wine drinker usually." She sets the bottle down. "Do you have any soda? Or juice? Something non-alcoholic?"
I close my eyes briefly, summoning patience. "You don't want the wine I specifically selected."
"I want to try it! Of course I do." She's opening my refrigerator now, examining the contents. "But I'll probably want something else after I taste it. Just to have options, you know?"
She pauses, staring into my nearly empty fridge. "You don't have much in here. Just some basics."
"I don't cook at home often." I'm defensive now, aware of how sparse my refrigerator looks.
"We should change that. When I move in, I'll stock it properly." She's taking mental inventory. "You need vegetables. Fresh fruits. Dairy products. Normal drinks that aren't just water and beer. I'll make a list of essentials. Also plenty of vegan choices."
“Are you vegan now? I made veal.”
“Sometimes,” she says. “Usually on Mondays.”
I turn back to the risotto, stirring mechanically, my carefully planned romantic dinner dissolving into chaos. This is not how this evening was supposed to go. Nothing is going according to plan.
"Can I help with anything else?" she asks, appearing at my elbow.
"No. I have it under control."
"Are you sure? I'm actually a pretty good cook. My mother made sure I learned all the traditional dishes. I could help plate or something."
I doubt that severely, given what I've seen so far. "I'm sure. I have it handled."
"Okay, but if you change your mind, just let me know!" She leans against the counter next to me, too close, invading my personal space. "This is nice, isn't it?"
"What is?" I'm focused on rescuing the risotto from her earlier assault.
"This. You cooking. Me here in your kitchen. Very domestic. Like we're already married."
"Very chaotic," I correct. "This is very chaotic."
"Chaos is just unexpected change." She smiles at me, that infuriating smile that makes me want to both kiss her and strangle her. "You should embrace it. Learn to go with the flow."
"I don't want to embrace chaos. I want order and predictability."
"Too late for that. You're engaged to me." She says it like it's a fact of nature, unchangeable.
She's not wrong, unfortunately.
I finish the risotto, then plate everything.
The presentation is perfect, restaurant quality.
The osso buco is tender, the meat falling off the bone.
The gremolata I've sprinkled on top is bright and fresh, adding color and flavor.
The risotto is creamy and perfectly cooked despite her interference.
I bring both plates to the table with satisfaction. She follows, carrying the wine glasses carefully.
"This looks incredible," she says, sitting down with obvious appreciation. "You really know how to cook. I'm impressed."
"Thank you." The compliment pleases me more than it should.
I pour the wine into both glasses. She takes a sip, makes an appreciative sound that's almost sensual.
"That's really good. Smooth."
"I thought you weren't a wine drinker."
"I'm not, usually. But this is exceptional." She takes another sip, savoring it. "Very smooth. I can taste the... is that cherry? And something else?"
I watch her across the table as she examines her food. She's wearing a simple dress, nothing too formal, her dark hair falling loose around her shoulders. She looks beautiful in the candlelight, and for a moment I remember why I invited her here.
I need to salvage this evening. Get it back on track.
"Liana," I say, keeping my voice low and intentional.
"Hmm?" She's cutting into her osso buco.
"About last night."
"The car thing? We already talked about that this morning."
"Not the car thing. After that. In the parking lot."
She looks up from her plate. "After?"
"The kiss," I say directly.
"Oh." She takes a bite of risotto, chewing slowly. "This is really good. Seriously, what do you put in this? Is there a secret ingredient?"
"Liana." My voice carries an edge of frustration.
"Seriously, this is amazing. Is it the butter? Or the cheese? My Nonna always said the secret to good risotto is always butter. Lots of butter."
She's dodging the topic. Deliberately avoiding the conversation.
"We need to talk about it," I press, refusing to let her distract me.
"About butter and its role in Italian cuisine?"
"About the kiss. About what happened between us."
"What about it?" She's still eating, still not looking at me directly.
"It happened. We kissed. It was significant."
"I know it happened. I was there. I remember."
"And?" I need her to acknowledge this, to admit that something real happened between us.
"And what?" She reaches for her wine glass. "It was a kiss. People kiss all the time. It's not that unusual."
"It was more than that. You know it was."
"Was it?" She finally looks directly at me, her expression innocent. "I don't know. It felt pretty standard to me. Nice, but standard."
Standard. She's calling that kiss—that intense, passionate kiss that kept me awake all night—standard.
"You don't think there's something between us?" I ask, needing her to admit the connection I feel.
"Between us?" She tilts her head, considering. "Like chemistry? Physical attraction?"
"Yes. Exactly that."
"Oh, definitely. You're very attractive. It makes perfect sense that kissing would be pleasant." She says it so matter-of-factly, so clinically.
Now it's pleasant instead of standard.
"But," she continues, taking another bite of osso buco, "we're getting married anyway, so does it really matter if there's chemistry or not? We're stuck with each other either way. The arrangement is already made."
Stuck with each other. Like we're prisoners of circumstance.
"That's a romantic way to put it," I say dryly.