I ease onto the counter.
The cold’s seeping through the kitchen window, air crisp enough to pierce through the glass and sneak up my back.
I tuck my hands under me for warmth,
nodding toward the mixing bowl.
“You’re baking?”
He snaps his fingers,
then grabs the eggs and gets to work,
cracking them one by one.
Eggshells split in his hand,
whites slip like silk.
“Zabaglione,” he says.
I blink. “Scusami?”
His laugh rumbles low,
and he shakes his head as he dusts sugar in.
“It’s an Italian custard.”
He sets the bowl on top of the pot.
“My little holiday flex.”
And I can’t stop watching the way his forearm pulls with each flick of the whisk, blue veins popping, lean muscles crawling up to his biceps.
“After dark?—
“when the house shuts up
“and nobody needs me for nothin'—
“I get, y'know, a minute to just...
“do somethin' for me.”
I watch as the custard thickens,
turning golden and glossy.
Then he leans over,
pops four slices of bread into the toaster.
“Now you ready for your life to change? ‘Cause I’m about to hit you with the good shit.” He lifts the whisk, eyes on me. “And if you tell Ma I make this fluffy-ass magic, I’m callin’ you a liar.”
I smile, small and stupid.
The toast pops up.
