Chapter 43 #2
She's wearing a dress, and I shove it up around her waist, desperate to taste her—I've been starving for her all day.
Her taste floods my senses, obliterating everything else.
I devour her like a man possessed, her moans driving me wild as she clutches my hair, nails digging into my scalp.
When I finally thrust inside her, the sensation is overwhelming—her body grips mine, hot and slick, pulling me deeper.
We're not just kissing; we're consuming each other, my hips slamming against hers with a force that makes the counter shake.
The timer screams just as she does, her body convulsing around mine.
Breathless and trembling, she somehow steadies herself, yanking her dress down and lunging for the stove.
I watch, still reeling, as she tests the pasta with shaking fingers, declaring it "perfect al dente" in a voice still raw from crying out my name. The whiplash of her composure stuns me.
She dangles a strand of spaghetti between her fingers. "Taste test?"
I open my mouth, letting her place it between my teeth.
Half the strand hangs from my lips as I pull her closer by the waist. Her eyes light with recognition.
She takes the other end between her lips, and we inch toward each other, nibbling our way to the middle until our mouths meet, just like the two dogs in Lady and the Tramp.
The kiss dissolves into laughter, both of us breaking away.
"God, we're ridiculous," she says, wiping sauce from her chin. "I knew I was, but you? THE Max Kensington?"
"If only my shareholders could see me now," I say. "Though I've gotten good at disguises. Every year I sneak into Comic Con in various disguises—Doctor Doom, Guy Fawkes, The Mandalorian. Full helmet coverage is key when you're avoiding paparazzi."
She just smiles. “Oh, the things I take for granted. I go to Comic Con, too, but nobody mobs me when I dress up as Harley Quinn.”
I can't help but imagine Celeste dressed as Harley Quinn—her fiery copper hair twisted into those signature pigtails, dip-dyed pink and blue at the ends.
I picture her in those criminally short sequined shorts that would reveal those endless legs of hers.
A ripped crop top hugging her curves, splashed with that diamond pattern in red and black.
Those thigh-high boots with the three-inch heels making her almost as tall as me.
The image hits me like a physical force, and I feel myself growing hard again.
I force myself to take a deep breath, trying to regain control as the scent of tomatoes, garlic, and red wine reminding me there are other hungers to satisfy first.
She serves up the pasta and sauce with effortless grace.
For the salad, she's whipped up a Caesar dressing from scratch—her own mayonnaise base with lemon, garlic, and a splash of balsamic.
I'm mesmerized watching her work that mayonnaise magic.
The traditional method always intimidated me—the precise egg-cracking, the maddening drop-by-drop oil ritual.
But Celeste? She's revolutionized the process with my forgotten hand-blender.
One taste and I'm converted. This silky, tangy creation puts every jar from a grocery shelf to absolute shame.
The first forkful of pasta hits my tongue and I'm transported to a sun-drenched Italian kitchen.
Her simple ragu—bright San Marzano tomatoes, caramelized Vidalia onions, fresh garlic simmered to golden sweetness, and a whisper of oregano and basil—is nothing short of perfection.
A gentle heat from crushed red pepper flakes dances with the savory depth of the sauce, while a hint of red wine lingers in the background.
Each ingredient somehow remains distinct yet harmonious, like instruments in a well-conducted orchestra.
The homemade spaghetti, silky and egg-rich, yield with just the right al dente resistance between my teeth.
Celeste has mastered this dish completely, transforming humble ingredients into something transcendent.
"How is it possible I'm only discovering you now?" I ask, twirling another bite. "Where have you been hiding this talent?"
A flush creeps up her neck. "Mom's doing.
She insisted cooking was non-negotiable—said it would serve me my whole life.
" Her eyes cloud over. "I keep hoping for many more years of us in the kitchen together.
She came over to my condo all the time, you know.
Showed me how to julienne vegetables properly, corrects my sauce techniques.
" Her voice catches. "I can't imagine my life without her guiding me. "
I put my hand on hers. "How is she?"
She lifts one shoulder. "Back home now, thank god. The sepsis scare is over." A pause. "My mom's a badass. Cancer picked the wrong woman to mess with..." Her voice trails off, her eyes dropping to her lap. "Who am I fooling? Brian Piccolo was tough too, and look what happened to him."
I tilt my head. "Brian Piccolo? So that Chiefs apron in your kitchen isn't just Taylor Swift fandom?" The corner of my mouth quirks up. "You actually follow football."
“I grew up watching Brian's Song with my mom—she had a thing for James Caan and Billy Dee Williams back in the day.
And yeah, I bleed red and yellow. The Chiefs are my team through thick and thin.
Even when they make it all the way to the Super Bowl just to crash and burn on national television, I'm still right there with them. "
I eye her Chiefs apron, now hanging up on a hook. "So, when did you become a fan? Just jumping on the Mahomes bandwagon like everyone else?"
"Born and raised in KC," she says, twirling pasta around her fork.
"Didn't set foot in California until Dad brought me on that Mammoth ski trip.
Then again for UCLA film school." She takes a bite, chews thoughtfully.
"When Lexi got accepted to the same program, we scraped together enough to move Mom out here too.
Couldn't just abandon her back in Missouri.
" Her eyes soften. "The Chiefs were our thing—Dad's and mine. Sunday afternoons, just us two. He explained everything—first downs, touchbacks, defensive formations, the role of the secondary.” She points her loaded fork at me, sauce threatening to drip.
"Did you know if you fumble in your own end zone and the other team recovers, they get a safety? Two points."
I grin as I dig into my pasta some more. “Also if you’re a quarterback and you get sacked in the end zone. Also a safety.”
She nods. "Right." Her eyes go distant. "I never miss a Chiefs game.
It's like Dad's still there beside me, you know?
In his ratty old armchair with those ridiculous maracas.
" She demonstrates a quick shake with her hands.
"Every first down, every long run, every fourth-down conversion, every sack, every touchdown—those maracas would go wild.
" A smile flickers across her face, there and gone.
"So that's my schedule. Sundays, Monday nights, Thursday nights.
Whenever Mahomes is throwing, I'm watching. "
I catch myself wishing the Chiefs make it to the Super Bowl again.
The thought of Celeste's face if I surprised her with tickets makes something warm unfurl in my chest. For me, Super Bowl Sunday means the usual luxury suite my grandfather reserves without thinking—a family tradition spanning two decades.
But watching her eyes light up at the roar of the stadium, at seeing her team battle for the Vince Lombardi trophy in person instead of on some tiny screen?
That would be something worth remembering.
But I don’t mention that. That would be a surprise for her if the Chiefs make it again, which they probably will, considering their track record of the past few years.
“So,” I say. “Your mother…”
“Right.” She nods and takes a sip of her wine. “I…” She blinks hard, but a tear streaks down her cheek. First one, then another. “Sorry. I can’t talk about that…”
I suddenly want to just hold her in my arms, comfort her, and tell her it's all going to be OK. But, at the same time, I know that's not necessarily the truth. After all, I lost my mother to that disease. Granted, my mother’s breast cancer was extremely aggressive. With any luck, Celeste’s mother does not have a particularly aggressive form of the disease.
And if that's the case, she has a good chance of beating it.
I take a deep breath. "Not a problem." My fork hovers over the pasta. How much do I reveal to someone I barely know? The walls I've built aren't easily dismantled.
"I understand what you're going through," I finally say, twirling spaghetti around my fork without lifting it to my mouth.
"After my father disappeared, I became obsessed with learning about my mother's death.
Everyone changed the subject whenever I asked.
" The pasta grows cold as I set down my fork.
"Eventually my grandfather sat me down—I was seven, maybe eight.
He told me everything. About her illness.
About how my birth complicated things." My voice drops.
"About how she might have survived if not for me.
He probably figured I'd piece it together eventually.
But hearing it..." I shake my head. "Let's just say I wasn't equipped to handle that truth. "
Her eyes widen as she reaches for my hand, giving it a gentle squeeze. "How did you cope with that?"