I stand stunned, holding my breath. There’s no possible way he knows.
It’s confirmed when he turns his head and stares directly at me. That damn ghost of a smile returns on his lips. I know he doesn’t even realize it. And I hate that it warms me in places it shouldn’t.
“I didn’t hear anything.” I try to convince him.
“Right,” he says dryly. “I’m about to cook breakfast if you’d like to join. Or you can continue to lurk.” Is it sad that I find his dry humor amusing?
I want to decline his offer but my stomach rumbles. Begrudgingly, I set forth down the hallway and join him in the kitchen.
I really don’t know what to expect. He is, after all, a bachelor living in New York City. A Made Man at that too.
I expect gaudy gold decorations and accents. Hideous and outrageous paintings that scream wealth more than artistic integrity.
People with money tend to flaunt it.
Rico Maroni is the exception.
His kitchen is simple yet elegant. Everything about it screams efficiency. From the clear pathway, allowing space between the island and the cooking area. A prepping zone to a cleaning one. There’s a flow specifically designed for him. It’s all thought out. Very much so like him.
I hop onto the high chair located at the island and watch him.
I notice how he washes his hands after doing each task. Cuts fruit, washes his hands. Breaks an egg, washes his hands. Adding the all-purpose flour, baking powder, so on and so on. Washes his hands.
He also has a specific dish for each part of the meal. A small bowl for the cut fruit. A medium sized plate for the homemade pancake. The ramekin is filled with syrup. Each dish has its purpose. None of it touching the other foods.
When he’s done placing everything he washes his hands for the final time and stands opposite of me with his own breakfast.
“Thank you for making me breakfast,” I say to him.
“Well, I didn’t just make you breakfast,” he points out.
I roll my eyes. “You know what I meant.” I pop a strawberry in my mouth. The juices spill and I lick my bottom lip to collect it. I catch him watching before he begins to eat himself. “So, what got you into cooking?”
“Not starving,” he deadpans.
“Ha. Ha,” I laugh dryly. Once he’s finished with his fruit he adds all of the syrup from the ramekin to his pancake. It’s saturated in sweetness. “You eating a pancake or syrup?” I joke.
The syrup spills over onto the plate more as he cuts the pancake in slices. “I tend to seek sweetness with foods.”
“I wouldn’t have pegged you for being a sweet tooth.” I add a healthy amount of syrup to mine. A light glaze over the entirety of the pancake.
“Sweet, spicy, bitter,” he lists them, “It heightens the meal.”
“Almost like you seek the thrill of flooding your tastebuds.”
“I’ve never thought of it like that - but yes, I suppose you’re right.”
“But the food can’t touch?” I inquire.
“It’s not that they can’t touch. I just have a certain way of eating.”
“And that is?”
He pauses mid slice of his pancake. “Are my eating habits really this fascinating?”
“Maybe I’m just getting to know my captor. You know, understand you like you’re trying to understand me,” I say genuinely.
“I can’t tell if you’re being sarcastic or not.”
