Instantly wet.
I blush and turn back to pushing the knife through the hard pecorino cheese, my hands shaking. He’s so. Friggin. Hot.
Regaining my composure, I cut Italian bread into rounds. “Only a couple more months, and you’ll be an uncle. Three times over between Tommy and Giovanna’s twins and Matti and Siena’s baby.”
Vin grunts, leaning back against the counter, arms crossed over his impossibly broad chest, watching me.
“Now’s a bad time for women and babies.”
“Mmm, you might be right. But I guess it’s never a good time in your line of work, is it.” I point at the cabinet behind us. “Can you grab the small ceramic bowl for me? Top shelf.”
Vin raises an eyebrow, then does as I ask. I steal glances, admiring the way his shirt rises up a few inches, exposing histaut stomach as he plucks it effortlessly off the top shelf that I have to use a stool to reach. Devastating.
He’s clearly not thinking the same about me. He drops the bowl next to me with casual indifference.
I rinse it out and scrape the pesto from the blender into the bowl, then center it on the antipasto board. “Want to help me arrange the antipasti?”
He glances over both shoulders like he’s looking for an escape.
“Listen, princess, I should walk the perimeter, double check the windows—”
I rest my hand softly on his forearm, lifting my gaze to his. He stops mid-sentence, locked on.
“Please.”
He sighs, surrendering. For a moment, we work in silence, arranging olives and slices of meat and cheese around the pesto.
“I can see why you like this,” he says.
“Making antipasti? Or being in the kitchen?”
He nods, still placing meat and cheese on the board with surprising care. “Both. It’s relaxing.”
“That’s true. It’s also…certain.”
“What do you mean?”
I hand him the finished antipasto board, and he follows me to the my rickety dining table.
“It’s science. I know that if I mix one egg with 100 grams of flour I’ll get pasta dough. If I roll that dough out, cut it into strips, and boil it for three minutes, I’ll get tagliatelle. Cooking is dependable.”
He side eyes me as he sets the antipasto board down. “And you like dependable.”
“Of course. Everyone likes dependable. Constant chaos is stressful. Isn’t it?” I gesture for him to sit then fix him a plate.“Don’t you prefer to have people and things in your life you can count on?”
He studies my face without responding, his gaze falling to my mouth, the silence between us thick and charged. Finally, he drops into a chair and rolls a piece of salami around a piece of cheese.
“I have my brothers. Other than that, I thrive on chaos.”
Darkness clouds his expression as he drags a palm over his face. I smile softly.
“Yes, I saw you in action tonight. But you didn’t choose it. You responded to it. Seems like you would value dependability in your life.”
He watches me like I’m an oddity he doesn’t understand. “Are you telling me to take up cooking, princess?”
Even though he’s talking easily with me, he stays vigilant, glancing at the windows and scanning the room with tactical precision.
“Just saying that certainty can be grounding when you’re constantly threatened with chaos.”
