I can’t imagine how I ever took this woman for granted.
How I let myself forget the miracle of being in her presence.
Because being with Mia—just being with her—is so fucking special it hurts like a bitch to leave her, knowing she isn’t going to sleep in my bed.
For our sixth date, I decided to invite her for dinner at our home.
“It’s going to be a disaster,” Huxley tells me when I call to ask him to give me the number of the chef who runs the fine dining restaurant at his flagship hotel.
“I’m going to make this work,” I tell him. “Now, just give me the damn number.”
“How about I get this dinner catered so you don’t poison Mia?”
Mia thinks I have cooked for hertwice. The first time was when we were dating. I served undercooked pasta with overcooked chicken, and a whole lot of charm that barely made up for it.
The second time, I ordered from an upscale Italian place, plated it, and passed it off as mine.
“No. I want to do this.”
“Christ. Then make something simple instead of freaking risotto.”
“She loves truffle risotto.”
“Fuck!” Huxley swears. “How about I send the chef over to guide you?”
“No,” I snap. “Just let me talk to him. That’s all I need.”
I didn’t want some other man cooking for Mia. It had to be me.
So, with the help of Chef Luigi, who thankfully was a romantic (and therefore tolerant of my efforts), I made my wife’s favorite risotto.
Arborio rice, slow-stirred in rich broth, finished with truffle oil and shavings of Parmigiano-Reggiano I bought from a specialty store in town (recommended by Chef).
On the side, thanks to Chef Luigi, I am ready to serve roasted seasonal vegetables—spring carrots, fennel, and asparagus—drizzled in lemon butter.
There is warm focaccia. This was delivered by Chef Luigi, who declared that there was no way in hell he could teach methat.
I’m ready with fifteen minutes to spare.
I put a chilled bottle of Grüner Veltliner on the table because she likes her wine crisp, a little floral on the nose, and very dry.
Candles flicker on the table. Afterall, no romantic dinner feels complete without the steady burn of tapered candles standing guard.
Thelonious Monk hums from the speakers.
Everything is ready, and so am I—except I’m pacing the hallway by the front door like a man waiting to hear his fate.
I open the door as soon as there’s a discreet knock.
I have to close my mouth when I see her.
Mia is wearing a little black dress as if this is aproperdate.
Since I’m in dress pants and a crisp white button-down, it looks like we both understood the assignment.
She inhales as soon as she steps in, and then walks brusquely into the kitchen. She looks at the table and the stove, turns to me. “You cooked.”
“I did.”
