Keeping my focus on the antipasto plate I’m assembling, I say quietly, “Unless you are averse to smoking outside. This is a non-smoking establishment.”
Silence stretches between us, and I continue slicing cheese until I hear the cigarette pack crinkle again. I glance up to see Vin stuffing the cigarette back in the pack with a scowl.
“If anyone’s hungry, I got some amazing olives in from Italy.” I hold up a large green olive in one hand, a smaller dark one in the other. “These big ones are Bella di Cerignola from Puglia, and they’re savory. These are Gaeta olives from Lazio, and they have just a touch of sweetness.”
Matti and Siena are locked in some kind of silent argument again, but I have Vin’s full attention. He’s focused on the olives, but then his penetrating gaze shifts to my face, studying me like he’s trying to figure me out. I smile softly, hoping I don’t look as nervous as I feel.
He stands abruptly and comes around to my side of the counter.
“You have a restaurant?”
“Yes, The Arsenal.”
“You servesfogliatellethere?”
“Not usually. They’re time intensive, best when they’re fresh and warm.”
“So what do you serve?”
“I have some standards on the menu: antipasto, a pasta or risotto, saltimbocca or another chicken dish, then usually cannoli and tiramisu.”
“You make the pasta from scratch?”
“Of course.”
“And when you make pesto, do you use that Opalescent basil?” He eyes me critically, like he’s testing me.
I eye him back. “Not often. It’s rare, remember.”
“It’d probably taste incredible.”
“Want to find out?” When he doesn’t say anything, I gesture toward the basil plant on the counter beside him. “Hand me that, please.”
With practiced efficiency, I strip the plant of all its leaves, almost the last of my precious Opalescent basil, and feed them into a mini handheld blender along with olive oil, garlic cloves, and salt. The blade whirs, and that unmistakable aroma of fresh basil fills the air. I feel every muscle in my body relax.
He watches me for a moment then scans the array of meats and cheeses in various stages of preparation for the platter.
Without a word, he picks up a knife and starts slicing thesoppressatasalami into thick rounds. I place one hand on top of his to stop him.
“It’s okay. Grab yourself a drink if you like and relax. I’ll take care of this.”
We’re both staring at my hand covering his, his skin warm, scarred. I pull back, embarrassed, wiping my hands on my apron before reaching for his knife. He holds it out of reach, a flicker of something like amusement crossing his face.
“What, am I not doing it to your standards, princess?”
“Actually, no, you’re not,” I laugh, reaching for the knife again.
He holds it further out of reach, making me stand on my tiptoes. When I jump for it, I miss and stumble forward. Right into his arms. My chest presses against his, solid and unyielding. He grabs my waist to steady me, his fingers digging in just enough to hold me in place. I practically stop breathing.
I place my hand on his chest to push back, but he holds me firmly, his hand sliding down an inch, dangerously close to my ass.
Oh my gosh, his chest is so strong and hard, and as the seconds pass, his chest is not the only hard thing pressed against me.
“What the fuck am I witnessing right now?” Siena’s voice shatters the moment. She picks up a spoon and slings it at Vin.
Vin lets go of me instantly, any hint of flirtation evaporating. He puts himself between me and Siena, snatching the spoon out of the air before it connects with either of us and straightens to his full height.
“The fuck is your problem?” he snarls.
