Completely, totally, irrevocably ours.
And we are never letting her go.
17
ROSALINA
"I am telling you,Lina, the pot was like that when I started," Luca says, gesturing with the plate still clutched in his hand, water dripping onto the floor. "It is a defective pot."
"The pot is not defective. Your cooking skills are defective." I scrub harder at the burned bits stuck to the bottom, my nose wrinkling. "What were you even trying to make?"
"Pasta carbonara."
"Luca. Carbonara does not require burning a pot."
"It does when you are trying to multitask." He finally sets down the plate and picks up another one, running the towel over it with lazy, distracted movements. "I was on a phone call with one of Frank Lucas's guys and the heat got away from me."
"The heat got away from you," I repeat, glancing at him with raised eyebrows. "That is your excuse?"
"It is not an excuse. It is an explanation." He grins at me, dimples flashing, completely unrepentant. "There’s a difference."
"The difference is you burned a pot and will not admit it."
"I did not burn it. I caramelized it."
"You caramelized the bottom of a pot." I abandon my scrubbing to look at him fully, one hand on my hip, the other still dripping soapy water. "That is not a thing, Luca."
"It is now." He sets down the dish towel and moves closer, crowding into my space with that easy confidence he wears like a second skin. "I am starting a trend. Caramelized cookware. Very avant-garde."
"Very stupid," I counter, but I am smiling now, unable to help it when he looks at me like that—all mischief and warmth and barely contained laughter.
He reaches out and boops my nose with one finger, leaving a small soap bubble behind. "You have something right there."
"Luca!" I swipe at my nose with the back of my wrist, which only succeeds in getting more soap on my face. "Stop that."
"Stop what?" He does it again, this time catching my cheek. "I’m helping. You are covered in soap."
"Because you keep putting soap on me!"
"Prove it." He is grinning outright now, green eyes dancing with amusement, and I can see him preparing to do it again.
I don’t give him the chance.
I plunge my hand into the sink, scoop up a handful of soapy water, and splash it directly at his chest.
The water hits him square in the middle of his black t-shirt, soaking through the fabric immediately and leaving a dark,spreading stain. He looks down at himself, then back up at me, his mouth falling open in exaggerated shock.
"Did you just?—"
"Yep." I turn back to the sink, trying very hard not to laugh. "That is what you get for?—"
I don’t get to finish the sentence.
Luca moves fast, his hands finding my waist and lifting me clean off the ground before I can even process what is happening. I let out a startled yelp, my hands instinctively grabbing his shoulders for balance, and then I am being deposited on the counter beside the sink, my legs dangling, soapy water dripping from my hands onto the granite.
"Luca!" I am half laughing, half protesting, my heart suddenly racing. "What are you?—"
"Teaching you a lesson about starting water fights you can’t finish." He steps between my legs, his hands settling on my thighs, and the heat in his eyes makes my breath catch. "That was very rude, Fiorella."
