My home.
I snort again but quickly swallow the nervous laughter that always follows.
He tilts his head as he looks at me, then his mouth twitches, as if he wanted to smile but changed his mind. Turning his attention back to the tomatoes, he whispers, “Cute.”
When I feel the cold on my hands, it reminds me of the AC, and I walk to the wall.
No wonder!
I turn it up from sixty to sixty-eight and rub some warmth into my arms as I glance over the state-of-the-art kitchen that has a very homey feel to it.
“Come sit,mia piccola farfalla,” Adriano murmurs, jerking his head at the stools by the island.
Once again, I keep the granite slab between us as I take a seat.
“Would you like something to drink?” he asks as he uses the back of the knife to slide the chopped tomatoes into a pan.
“Coffee, please.”
Wiping his hands off on a kitchen towel, he asks, “Do you want regular or flavored?”
“Regular. Two sugars and cream.”
I’m transfixed as Adriano prepares a mug of coffee for me.
Usually, I’m the one making coffee and cooking.
This feels…weird.
Anxiety begins to buzz in my stomach because it had become a habit for me to do everything for Austin. As the familiar walking-on-eggshells feeling returns, I slide off the stool and lick nervously over my lips.
It was one thing with Austin, but with Adriano the worry is monstrous because he might not just kick me to the curb, but end me for already knowing things I shouldn’t.
When he carries the steaming mug to me, my gaze flits over the visible tattoos before looking at his face.
His eyes twitch, then he asks, “Is there something wrong with the stool?”
“No,” I whisper, rushing to meet him so I can take the mug from him. I only have a sip before setting it down and moving toward the stove. “What do you want to eat? I can take over–”My sentence morphs into a shriek when Adriano suddenly picks me up bridal style.
I wrap my arms around his neck, and seeing his dark frown, I gasp, “What did I do?”
“You’re going to sit and drink your fucking coffee,” he snaps before planting my butt on the stool. Catching my breath, I watch as he brings me the mug, then he grips my chin and leans in very close. “I’m making lunch. You are not a maid in our house. Got it?”
“Yes,” I almost add ‘sir’ but stop myself in time and instead swallow hard.
His expression softens, and I’m given another kiss on my forehead before he pulls away and moves back to stand between the island and stove.
Adriano opens a can of tomato paste and throws it into the pan as well, before he slices an onion into tiny pieces. “Drink your coffee,mia piccola farfalla.”
Oh, right.
I take another sip and only then taste how good it is. While I drink the rest, I realize Adriano’s making pasta sauce from scratch.
Austin couldn’t even make toast.
He tried once, burned it black, then said cooking is my problem. He half-assed it with every chore until I took over because doing everything myself was easier than dealing with his irritation and complaints.
Somewhere along the way, he trained me to carry the entire weight of our lives while making me feel like I was expecting too much when I dared to ask him for help.
