I know I should feel furious.
Instead, all I feel is overwhelm—and a quiet, aching longing for something I can’t quite name.
I whisper into the dark, “What the hell did I get myself into?”
8
MAX
A Marinara Incident
It’s the day of our first official date and I’m giving myself a pep-talk. It goes like this:Don’t antagonize her, Donovan. Don’t make this feel awkward for her. And for the love of every platinum plaque on your wall, don’t let the world see you staring at her mouth like a starving man in a bakery.
I push open the door to La Cucina Felice and step into the kind of aroma that could bribe a monk—fresh basil, roasted garlic, yeast just beginning to bloom. The studio is half cooking classroom, half Instagram trap: reclaimed-wood workstations under chandeliers made of upside-down colanders. Nora is already here, hip propped against a marble countertop, rolling her bottom lip between her teeth while she studies the prep list. A mustard-yellow apron cinches her waist; tiny flour fingerprints ghost the fabric where she’s clearly wiped nervous hands.
My pulse lands somewhere in the pocket of a groove I haven’t written yet. She doesn’t notice me at first, so I let myself watch—just a second—the way that errant curl of chestnut hair keepssliding from her bun, the way she tucks it back with a huff that makes her nose crinkle. The air conditioner kicks on and the strand rebels again. Without thinking I step forward.
“Let me,” I say, gentle as I can manage with a voice that usually fills arenas. Fingers brush that curl behind her ear. Her head jerks up, storm-gray-green eyes flaring in surprise before smoothing into a cool, guarded caution.
“Personal-space violation, Chef Donovan,” she murmurs, but the corner of her mouth hooks. “You’re late.”
“That’s because I’m terrified.” I gesture at the rows of copper pans. “These things look like they cost more than my first Les Paul guitar.”
“Still wouldn’t swap your guitar for a couple of pans, would you?” she asks, deadpan.
“Not in this lifetime,” I laugh.
Relief flickers—she’s opting for small talk instead of ice. Maybe she’s just wringing the best out of a messy morning.
We’re inches apart and the studio’s tall windows throw spears of morning light across her cheekbones, turning them to marble. She flicks her gaze to the apron hanging loose in my fist. “Put that on backwards and you’ll ruin the optics, Max.”
She lingers on my real name—half snark, half warmth.
“Always knew I needed a stylist.”
I loop the apron around my neck, then turn so she can tie the straps. Her knuckles brush my spine; heat ricochets under my skin. We haven’t touched since the elevator incident, but my body remembers every millimeter of hers pressed against me. Calm down, Donovan.
Chef Luigi—a barrel-chested Italian with a mustache worthy of a silent-film villain—sweeps forward to shake our hands.
“Ah, the innamorati,” he proclaims, planting both hands on his ample hips. “I recognize the glow. It is the same shine my mamma got when Papà brought her fresh cannoli.”
Nora coughs into her sleeve. “We’re not—uh—”
I cut her off. “We’re very much in love, it’s true,” I say, reaching for Nora’s hand. She let’s me take it and it feels warm. I think I hear a small gasp when our hands touch.
Luigi’s index finger launches skyward. “I recognize amore when I see it. When you name your first child, please—‘Luigi’ is flexible for boy or girl.”
Nora lets out a strangled sound halfway between a laugh and a groan. “We’ll—um—keep a list.”
Luigi twirls away, declaiming to the ceiling. “Bellissimo! The kitchen blesses this union—may your pasta never be al dente, and may your fights be short like fresh gnocchi!”
I grin at Nora. She looks slightly flushed, I notice.
Chef Luigi claps twice for emphasis, then snaps into teacher mode. “Now, amoretti, let’s get started with our class.”
Vivienne lingers in the corner with the PR photographer, Gavin—her expression all raptor: pleased, predatory, perfect. She lifts her phone, mouthswholesome.I give her a mild thumbs-up that very much meansgo away.
Luigi walks us through the lesson: mix semolina and water, knead until “soft like a lover’s thigh,” crank it through the hand roller. His accent turns every instruction into a double entendre. Nora’s ears flush red. Gorgeous.
