I shake my head, hoping to suppress my grin.Fail. I’m doing a lot of failing in that department tonight.
Aunt Sofia glides her hand across my shoulders as she makes her way to the fridge. “Okay, let’s get started.” She hands Beckett apackage of chicken. “I’ll get the water boiling while you cut the chicken so we can get it seasoned and let it marinate while we make the noodles, then we’ll work on the sauce.”
Before she fills a pan with water and places it on the stove, she hands Beckett an apron. “Wear this one… maybe you’ll get lucky.”
He slips it over his head, looks down, and cackles. “‘Kiss the Cook…it’s the secret ingredient.’” He holds the hem. “I mean, I am hoping.”
“If not,” he adds casually. “I’ll beg for an invitation to your next sex party.”
My lips curl with a growl. He knows what reaction he’ll get out of me.
At the same time, the urge to be closer to him builds. Getting up from my stool, I take the cutting board from behind the sink and grab a knife while Beckett opens the package of meat. I purposely press up against him when I place the board in front of him, wanting to feel his body heat. “Mine.” I squeeze his hips. “Always mine.”
“Yes, sir,” he whispers, just for me.
Before I combust, Sofia clears her throat. “What do you think?” she asks. “The girls got it for my birthday.”
We both turn to see Aunt Sofia smooth out her apron. It reads, “Careful… I might toss your salad.” I groan, burying my forehead against Beckett’s shoulder blades, and he wheezes out a laugh. “I love her.”
“Same,” I say, kissing his temple on my way back to my stool. “I love it!”
For the next hour, I get my favorite view in the world: Aunt Sofia in her tiny kingdom, teaching Beckett the family recipe for that ridiculous Marry Me Chicken. He listens and asks questions with genuine interest, moving like he belongs here.
Watching them, something settles in me. I’ve been feeling thata lot lately, small shifts in what I thought my life was going to be. And the scene before me is another shift in my heart.
“Thank you,that tasted crazy good. Ugh, and the homemade pasta… cooked perfectly. I get how hard that is.”
She scoffs. “Thank you, but give yourself some credit. The noodles were all you. And you said you don’t know how to roll out noodles.”
“To be fair, I said I wasn’t verygoodat it.”
She looks over at me. “I think you are gonna have your hands full with this one.”
“Tell me about it,” I agree.
“Are you sure I can use your recipe in my cookbook?”
“Of course,cario. Marry Me Chicken is meant to be shared with lovers from all walks of life,” she says, getting up to clear plates.
“Sit,” I say. “You two cooked, so the least I can do is the dishes. And one of these days, Aunt Sofia, I’m gonna buy you a dishwasher.”
She sits back down. “Blasphemy. Why would I want that when I have two perfectly capable hands and fine china?”
I’d say I have my hands full with both of them.
“Oh, Domenico, before I forget, there’s mail for you on the counter next to the coffeemaker.”
There’s only one piece of mail that gets delivered here.
I walk over to the envelope sitting on the counter, and I steel myself before picking it up. There, stamped in red across it, isNew York State Penitentiary. Bile starts to rise in my throat, threatening the contents of my stomach.
“Excuse me.”
“Excuse me.”
I’m sure the puzzled look on my face shows my confusion as I watch Dom abruptly leave the kitchen. As he goes by, he puts the envelope on the table, and I glance down.
New York State Penitentiary.
