“Clara let me in,” she says quickly. “If that’s not okay—”
“It’s okay.” I glance at the pan. “You’re making mycomfort food.”
A fleeting smile warms her mouth. “With a lot of direction from Clara, so I hope I got it right.” She nudges the timer with her knuckle. “Two minutes until al dente.”
I touch my fingers to her cheek, turn her face back to me. My other arm wraps around her, and I lower my mouth to hers gently, needing her.
Her breath catches, then she presses into me, familiar and sweet. like she’s been holding herself still all day. The kiss is slow and comforting, heat and warm and the faint bite of pepper on her tongue. For a beat, the exhaustion slides off my shoulders, and it’s only her mouth under mine, her hand holding tight to my bicep.
I pull back first, thumb at her jaw, searching her eyes. “Okay?” I ask, rougher than I mean to.
“Okay,” she whispers, and then, because it’s Olivia, “But we should—”
The timer trills between us. We both huff out a breath that’s almost a laugh. “Finish,” I say, and reach past her to kill the flame under the pot. She scoops a ladle of pasta water; I drain and tip the spaghetti into her pan. We work together, splash and toss, Pecorino falls like snow until the sauce goes glossy and thick.
We forego the table and move to the couch in front of the fire, balancing warm plates on our laps.
The cheese is sharp and just right with a burst of pepper on the tongue, and I feel myself unknot a degree at atime. I watch her take a bite, cheeks a little pink from the heat of the stove, the light from the fire catching in her hair.
“How’s Antonio?” she asks.
“Better.” The word comes more easily than any other today. “Awake in flashes. Still on the vent. They think tomorrow for the tube.”
Relief crosses her face. “I’m glad. Are you going back tonight?”
“No, Nico and Vito are there. Lucia will be in by morning as well. She was out of reach for a while, so it took a day to get in touch with her.” Then I add: “Sorry, she’s Luca’s older daughter. Caterina’s sister.”
Olivia nods. “Caterina mentioned her a couple of times over the years. Not in detail or anything. To be honest, the way she talked about her, I thought she was dead.” She looks up at me. “Then, you know, I did some research.”
“We considered her dead for a long time,” I whisper. “It was a mistake, and one we’re trying to fix, though it’s taking time.”
Silence stretches between us, the clink of forks on plates and the fire crackling the only sounds. She twirls more pasta and sets down her fork, fingers finding the rim of the plate and holding.
“I meant what I said at the hospital,” I tell her, because she’s here and because I won’t waste the chance. “All of it.”
Her eyes lift, and there’s a little hesitation in her exhale. “I know,” she says. She draws a deep breath and lets it out slowly. “I didn’t come to talk about the past, Roberto.”
“All right,” I say, and set my fork down. “Then talk to me about now.”
She looks past me into the fire, as if trying to find the right words.
Finally, she sets her plate on the coffee table in front of us and turns toward me fully. I mimic her movements.
“First, I have to tell you something,” she says quietly.
Concerned, I pull my brows together.
“Whatever it is, you can tell me,” I assure her.
“Easier said than… said, I guess.” She blows out a breath and looks me in the eye. “First, I need you to know that… I love you too.”
For a beat I don’t breathe. The words render me speechless. I reach for her hand without thinking, and she lets me have it, fingers tight around mine. “Say it again,” I hear myself ask, hoarse.
“I love you,” she repeats. Her grip tightens once more. “I’ve known it for a while, but it scared me. “She swallows, eyes on mine. “And then, when I found out about…”
“Olivia, I’m sorry,” I say. I reach out to touch her cheek with my fingertips. She closes her eyes. “I’m sorry you found out the way you did. I’m sorry that I didn’t tell you the truth about my family.”
She’s shaking her head, but I continue. “I told you yesterday that you could ask me anything, and I’d answer. Ask me.”
