“Do you mind if I take a shower?” he asks suddenly.
“No…ah…I should….”
“I can find my way, I think,” he says indulgently and then adds casually, “I’m making you nervous.”
Yes, you are, and you’re not helping by stating that fact. Actually, you just made it worse.
He steps close to me, the kitchen counter no longer helpful. He puts his hands on my shoulders, and I hope toCristoI’m not looking at him like a deer caught in headlights.
“I intend to sleep next to you tonight…and that’s all it is. Unless you…until we…decide otherwise.”
Still not helping with my anxiety.
“You should take a shower,” I squeak.
His expression warms with amusement.
I sigh when he’s out of the kitchen and then groan, trying to remember if I left my panties or my vibrator or…anythingincriminating out on the bed.
Zoya would have put it away. Right?
Dio!
I start cooking because it always helps me calm down.
I never cook to impress.
It’s always been about comfort—there is a tranquility in knowing exactly how long onions take to soften, how much salt wakes tomatoes without overwhelming them, and how heat can be coaxed rather than forced.
I decide to make a quintessential Tuscan dish,pici,an egg-rolled pasta with a sausage ragù. There are handmade sausages and fresh pasta waiting in the fridge, leftovers fromthe tasting room kitchen where the chef made too much last week, perfect for a surprise guest.
I chop the onions cautiously, letting the knife find its rhythm against the board. They release their sweetness as they soften in the pan, turning translucent, obedient.
I brown the sausage, breaking it apart with the wooden spoon, listening for that first deep sizzle that means flavor is building.
Tomatoes go in next—just enough—crushed by hand, skins slipping free as they melt into the fat.
I stir.
Taste.
Adjust the salt.
Stir again.
Cooking usually stills my mind. Tonight, it does the opposite.
Does he like simple food? The kind that nourishes but isn’t impressive?
Will he think this is too rustic—like me—not polished enough for a man who eats in boardrooms and Michelin kitchens?
I’ve eaten in my share of Michelin-starred restaurants. After all, I’m an Alighieri, and we make some of the most expensive wines sold in the world. My sister is a restaurateur in her own right. But that’soutsidefood. At home, I keep it simple. Does he?
I taste again. The sauce is good.
Why am I behaving like an ingenue? This is not me. I’m a grown woman.
Dio! Have I fallen for my husband, who started our arrangement by telling me he’s going to sleep with other women?
