“Thank you. This means more to me than you’ll ever know.”
Oh God, what did I just get myself involved in?
Tuesday, I ran with Aiken and then made the two of us dinner—cacioe pepepasta, an old dish I used to make long before David. Apparently, it was wildly popular these days, which I’d learned in New York, so I pulled it out of my hat again. I didn’t get it. It was an easy dish of pasta with black pepper and Pecorino Romano cheese, but who was I to know?
Aiken promptly grabbed the bowls from the cabinet, his shirt lifting, exposing his abs and smooth golden skin, my breath coming in pants. I swallowed my desire down with a big gulp of white wine, right before Aiken covered the pot, laid the bowls on top, and whistled for Smitty. With the wine tucked under his arm, he lifted the pot/bowls and marched over to his house, my dog in tow (and me).
Inside his adorable little yellow clapboard house, he set us up in front of a roaring fire.
With the pot on the coffee table, Aiken finally realized, “Shit, I forgot silverware and a serving thing. One sec.”
After a bite, I admitted, “This is new. A bit domineering how you got me here, but I do like eating this way.” I was sitting crisscross applesauce, and I smiled to myself that the Abby memory didn’t make me cry. We were on a blanket on the floor, backs against the couch, fire going in front of us, and twirling pasta with our forks.
“Richards, I told you…I wasn’t going to wait much longer before moving forward. Which makes me wonder, why did you keep that asshole’s name?”
He set his bowl down and took a long sip of wine, keeping eye contact with me.
“Well, it was Abby’s and mine.”
“I figured you’d say that. You never wanted to go back to your maiden name? What is it?”
“Bruni.”
“Claire Bruni. Like it. Where’d you learn to make this dish? From your mom?”
I nodded. “Yeah, she used to say it was a cheap gourmet meal. She’d make it for Christmas Eve and used to tell me to make it for my family one day. She’d also make it during the week, and we felt like royalty eating it. I was surprised to see it on every menu in New York.”
“It’s good. We should have it for Christmas Eve with my dad. Plan to make it.”
“What?” I set my bowl next to his, afraid that whatever came next out of his mouth would force me to spill.
“My pops. I’m going to spend Christmas on the farm, and since the semester is over, I know you can’t assign any crazy papers, so I want you to come with me. Meet my pops, see the place, meet the animals.”
“Won’t he think it’s a bit odd? Me, you?”
“I’m not answering that. My dad’s spent most of his life pining for a woman who probably never loved him a quarter as much as he loved her. He’s not going to think it’s weird that you and I are falling for each other.”
“You’re not going to make me milk cows or anything?”
“Never, but I am going to have you make this dish.”
“Okay, I’ll go. But if it’s weird, I’m taking the first plane or bus home. Fair warning, that’s all.”
“It’s not going to be weird, Bruni.”
I’m going home with this guy for Christmas.
That was the thing about Aiken. He kept unwrapping another layer of me, like a kid on Christmas morning. Except, like one of those huge trick boxes with another box and then another box inside, I was afraid that was all he would find—more layers, more boxes, more nothing.
