Page 47

“I need to clean up, but you’re welcome to keep exploring,” Robby adds.

I lift my arms off the breakfast bar. “Maybe I will.”

There’s a hallway off the foyer, separate from the main living space, so I start that way. The hallway has the same gray paint and new flooring with family photos on the walls. I pause by the same photo of his family that’s on the winery’s social media profile. I squint to figure out who’s who, and I can now identify his parents. Robby has his arm on his dad’s shoulder with a big smile painted on his face. I’m assuming one of his cousins is standing on Robby’s other side, and he’s easily the giant of the family, standing a couple of inches taller than Robby.

Out of the corner of my eye, I notice one door at the end of the hallway is mostly open, and it draws me toward it. He told me to explore, so I gently push the door all the way. Inside, the air feels heavier. It’s his filming room. I take in the filming setup, complete with an empty tripod and lights arranged around it in front of the all too familiar couch against the back wall. Aside from those things, the room is devoid of any décor with bare walls. The blinds are closed tightly, but enough light pours in to illuminate the space.

The goosebumps crawl up my arms again, and I exhale slowly as I step inside. I knew he was Rook, but seeing his filming room in person just solidifies it. This is where my fantasies were born. I carefully walk over to the couch as if I’m walking on eggshells and find a pair of neatly folded dark-wash jeans waiting for the next video. I lift them up, and they unfold in my grip. They’re made from a crisper denim than I expected, and the waistband has distressing for the worn-in feeling. It’s an absolute relic.

“Want me to put them on?” Robby’s voice behind me makes me jump, and I turn to find him in the doorway, leaning against the doorframe casually.

“Will you become someone else if you do?” I ask.

Do I want that?

His eyes darken. “Not tonight, baby.”

He walks in and drops his shorts, revealing he’d gone commando. I avert my eyes. To give him privacy, but also, I’m afraid I might pounce on him if I look too long. But what would be more iconic than fucking Robby on Rook’s couch?

He reaches out for the jeans, and I pass them over to him. He pulls them up his legs and fastens the button fly. He lifts the hem of his shirt to reveal how they hang off his hips and sucks in to flex his abs. My mouth waters, and it’s not from the tomato-fragranced air.

“Like what you see?” he asks.

“Mm-hmm, now, put it away before I get reckless. I want to eat pizza,” I snark. Robby chuckles, and the noise booms around the relatively empty room. “But damn, they look good on you,” I add, trailing my fingertips over his jean-clad butt.

He smirks. “I know.” A timer goes off just then. “Ugh, I should deal with that.”

I follow him back to the kitchen. Seeing Robby in the Rook jeans in such a domestic setting is a strange duality, like I’m dating two men, but now, I’m a believer that Rook needs to start adding cooking videos to his page.

“You know, there’s bitches who’d pay to watch you cook shirtless in those jeans. It’s me; I’m bitches.”

Robby chortles loudly as he pulls a pizza out of the oven. He tosses the oven mitts onto the counter and walks over to me. His hands gently find my hips, lifting me to the clean counter, so we’re face-to-face. “How about we make that sort of view exclusive to just your eyes?” My heartbeat drums hard in my chest, and I press my hand over it.

“I can’t tell if you’re trying to DTR with me right now,” I say, draping my arms over his shoulders.

His eyes shift away from me in thought. “DTR?”

My anxiety makes me giggle. “Define the relationship.”

“I’ve been yours since we met in college.”

I should have been his, too.

“Want some wine?” he asks, playfully slapping the sides of my thighs with both of his hands. It’s an innocent question, but my insides feel like they’re sinking inside me.

“Do you drink every day?” I ask.

“Yeah, why?” I frown before I can stop it. He brushes a rogue curl from my face. “What’s wrong?”

“Um, I grew up with a lot of alcoholism. It bugs me that you drink so often,” I whisper.

“Oh, Appa…” He pauses for a moment. “To be clear, I drink one glass of wine per day. Sometimes, two. But it’s not for the alcohol. Nonna has a very strong belief that wine has antioxidants and can keep your heart healthy.” He brushes the curl behind my ear, but it just springs back to frame my face. “A big guy like me isn’t getting drunk off one glass, and I don’t crave it. It’s more habit than anything. Okay?” It sounds innocent enough, but I can’t do life with him if he’s going to be like my dad. Still, something inside of me believes him.

“When’d you start drinking wine?” I ask.

“Regularly? High school, but my dad let me sample before then. Nothing crazy. But I hope that made you feel better. I haven’t gotten drunk since college,” he says.

“I think so. It’s just triggering for me.”