“One kiss,” he says, so close I taste his words. “One kiss for me, then one kiss for Basher.”
“No,” I whisper.
“Yes. A kiss for both of us and then—”
“The fuck is happening here?”
I jump like someone fired a gun. Doc sighs, lowering his finger from my chin. “Perfect timing, Morelli.”
Eli stands in the doorway in a dark suit and red tie. As always, his angular beauty hits like a brick. I tuck my hair behind my ear. I felt untidy in front of Doc and Bobby. I feel disgusting in front of Eli.
“So this is where you’ve been all day, Domenico? Making Miss Whitehall clean the kitchen?”
Doc snorts. “I’ve been dealing with Romanov. The girl cleaned on her own.”
Eli gives him a skeptical look.
“Believe me. If it was my call, she’d be upstairs polishing something else.”
Eli glances at me. “Was the cleaning your idea,bella?”
I wish I’d done anything else today. Gone to the gym. Walked in the grounds. Even read a book. “Yes, um, it was.”
“I already offered her a maid outfit,” Doc says. “Want to kick in? Buy her a feather duster?”
Eli ignores him. He walks to the stovetop where the brodo is beginning to smell like heaven. He turns to me. “You can cook?”
“I… Yes?”
He walks closer, shiny shoes clicking on the newly washed floor. “You didn’t tell me you could cook.”
“I, um, didn’t think you’d want to know?”
He jerks a thumb behind him. “Is that Pastina di Pollo?”
“I don’t know. It’s… my Zia Teresa calls it brodo.”
“I see.” Eli’s expression is mild. Maybe my dinner is so inauthentic, he’s going to pour the entire pot down the sink.
“You don’t have to eat it,” I say quickly. “I just thought Harvey and the others would like it andIlike it and I really wasn’t trying to… do anything…”
Eli’s gaze falls on the plastic-wrapped parmesan sitting beside the grater. His face darkens. “Cos’è questa merda disgustosa?”What is this disgusting shit?
I wince. “Harvey brought it back.”
I feel bad throwing Harvey under the bus, but he’s way less likely to get locked in a cage if Mr. Morelli hates store-bought Parmesan as much as Zia Teresa.
“Put it in the trash,” Eli snaps. “Harvey can drive to the deli for parmigiano.”
He pulls out his phone and taps a message. A text to Adriano ordering him to strangle me for insulting their heritage? What possessed me to make Italian food in the house of an Italian prince? Why didn’t I just ask Harvey for a burger?
Eli shoves his phone back into his suit jacket and looks me over. “You’re filthy. And your dress is ruined.”
“I know. I’m sorry but—”
“Can your meal wait another hour?”
I blink. “Um, of course. It gets better the longer it simmers.”
