cecilia
. . .
I step into the kitchen,my stomach growling softly as Gabriel follows close behind, his presence like a warm shadow.
“Hungry, baby?” he asks, his arms winding around my waist, pulling me against his chest. There’s a smile in his voice, and I can’t help but smile back, my lips tugging up even as I try to focus on the task at hand.
“A little,” I admit, though my stomach’s impatient grumbling says otherwise. “I have swim practice soon, but we’ve got time for a quick bite. Wanna eat with me before I go?” I glance back at him, catching his honey-brown eyes flicking down to my lips.
He tightens his hold, pressing a kiss to the side of my throat in that possessive way he does, making my knees feel weak. "I could eat." His voice is low, suggestive, and suddenly, this isn’t just about food anymore.
How does he make something as simple as eating sound so dirty?
“What do you want?” I ask, slipping out of his hold and making my way toward the pantry, needing the small space to clear my head, to focus. Gabriel is a lot—intense, all-consuming, especially when his hands are on me. Not that I’m complaining.
He leans against the counter, watching me. “Whatever you want, baby. Surprise me.”
I rummage through his pantry and pull out some ingredients. “How about pasta? Maybe a quick homemade marinara?”
One brow quirks up, amusement flickering in his eyes. “You can cook?”
I laugh, setting the cans of tomatoes and herbs on the counter. “Gabriel, I’m Italian. Cooking is literally in my blood.”
Gabriel crosses his arms over his chest, a slow grin tugging at his lips as he watches me. His eyes stay locked on me, like he’s trying to figure me out—always watching, always wanting. "You sure? Usually, I’m the one showing off in the kitchen."
“We’ll see if you’re still cocky after this.” I roll my eyes playfully, grabbing a pot and filling it with water. "Watch and learn, Herrera. This is how we Italians do it." My hands move automatically, years of watching my mom and Nonna’s hands at work making this second nature.
He steps closer, leaning in as I chop garlic and onions, tossing them into a pan with olive oil. The sizzle fills the air, followed quickly by the rich, fragrant aroma of garlic. Gabriel takes a deep breath, his eyes closing as he absorbs the smell. “Smells good already.” I add in some fresh basil I found in the fridge. Shocker, I know. I didn’t expect to find fresh basil in the fridge, either.
“You haven’t seen anything yet,” I tease, stirring the ingredients as the kitchen fills with the mouthwatering smell of a home-cooked meal. “This is how my nonna taught me—simple and fresh.”
He watches me intently, his usual dominant energy muted, replaced with something softer, more curious. “I didn’t know you had Italian roots.”
“The dark hair, dark eyes, and soft tan didn’t give it away?” I ask.
He shakes his head.
I grab a spoon to stir the sauce, letting the warmth of it settle the nervous energy building between us. “I’m Italian on both sides. Dad’s mostly Italian with a sprinkle of Greek. Mom is half Italian, half Spanish,” I explain. “Sundays were always pasta night at my house, and a good marina is one of the first things I learned how to make.” I can feel him studying me, and it makes my heart race for reasons that have nothing to do with the cooking.
The sauce starts to bubble, the aroma growing richer. He reaches a finger toward the sauce, and I smack it away. “It’s not ready,” I admonish, ignoring his disgruntled frown.
Gabriel steals a piece of basil from the cutting board and pops it into his mouth with a triumphant, boyish smile. His nose wrinkles. “Delicious.”
I laugh, knowing full well that raw basil tastes like black licorice. “Liar.”
He grins and shrugs, stepping back just enough to grab two plates
“So ... How’s practice been?” I stir the sauce and lower the heat, letting it bubble gently as I glance over at him. It’s hard to focus on anything but him, but I try to steer the conversation to safer ground. “You’ve seemed stressed lately.” And I’d rather it be over soccer than because of me.
Gabriel exhales slowly, rubbing a hand through his hair. “It’s been rough. Some of the younger guys ... they’re good athletes, but we’re not jelling. It’s late in the season, and we still haven’t found our rhythm. Everyone’s in their own heads.”
I nod, tasting the sauce and adding a pinch of salt. I can feel the tension in his voice, the frustration gnawing at him. "Maybe you guys need a break from the field. You know, something outside of soccer that helps you connect. One of those team building exercise things.”
He tilts his head, considering the idea. "Like what?"
“I don’t know. How about a team BBQ sometime before your next game?" I suggest, glancing over at him. "It could be a good way to get everyone on the same page. Build some chemistry."
"Yeah … that’s not a bad idea." He pauses, his gaze narrowing slightly as if another thought crosses his mind.
