“Hey,” she says.
“Hey yourself.” I step aside to let her in. “Hungry?”
“Always.”
I want to fuck her right there but decide to feed her actual food first.
So I lead her to the kitchen where I’ve got everything staged. Fresh pasta drying on racks. Lobster prepped. Sauce reducing. The whole production. Courtesy of Rosa, before she left.
She leans against the counter and watches me work. I can feel her eyes tracking my movements. The way I plate. The precision of each element.
“You really love this,” she observes quietly.
“Love what?”
“The ritual of it. The control.”
I pause mid-plate. Look at her. “That a problem?”
“No.” She shakes her head. “Just an observation.”
We eat at the island. The pasta is perfect. Rich and briny and exactly what I needed.
Jess makes that sound again. The one that goes straight to my cock.
“This is obscene,” she tells me between bites. “Seriously. How is this even legal?”
I shift, my pants suddenly too tight. “It’s not. That’s why I only make it for special occasions.”
“And tonight’s special?”
I meet her eyes. “Yeah. It is.”
She blushes. Fucking blushes.
Love it when she does that.
We finish eating. I clear the plates. She offers to help but I wave her off because I need something to do with my hands that isn’t touching her.
Yet.
I’m rinsing the last plate when the words just come out. No filter. No planning.
“I think about Vegas sometimes.”
The water keeps running. She’s quiet behind me.
“That night,” I continue. “Before the wedding. Before everything went to shit.”
“Marco.” Her voice is careful. Like I’m about to step on a landmine.
Maybe I am.
I turn off the water. Turn to face her. “I wish I’d married you instead.”
The silence that follows is thick enough to cut.
Her expression shifts. Something between pain and understanding.
