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“Just that you really don’t strike me as an apron and rolling pin kind of guy.”
His grin widened. “I’m offended.”
“You have other talents.” Her cheeks glowed pink at the unintentional double entendre. “I mean, you work so hard at Montebello Industries,” she clarified.
His brows lifted.
“Long hours. Saving the world one corporate take-over at a time, that kind of thing.”
He laughed. “I still have to eat.”
“I don’t think I saw you cook once…before.”
“Didn’t I?” He frowned. “No, probably not.” He’d done his best to spend as little time as possible at home. It had felt like the right decision at the time but now he felt a rush of remorse, flooding him from every angle. He lifted his eyes and saw she understood – his guilt increased ten fold.
“Yaya was adamant that we’d all have good life skills. No grandchild of mine is going to expect to be waited on hand and foot,” he imitated his grandmother’s thick Greek accent. “I don’t think she ever approved of the money we grew up with. Or maybe she just learned her lesson after her kids…”
“Your parents?” Alessia interjected softly. She knew the basics of his story, but it was still something she struggled to comprehend.
“They were given a lot of latitude.”
She nodded thoughtfully. “I guess this is something we have to think about.”
“Spoiling our kids?”
She tilted her head to the side a little so her long blond hair shimmered like a sunbeam. “Just how we raise them.”
He laid the pizza dough on one oven tray then turned his attention to the rest of the dough, kneading it and rolling it. “Your childhood was pretty down to earth, right?”
“In lots of ways, yes. Dad spoiled me,” she sipped her wine, having allowed Massimo to pour her a small glass of Tempranillo. “And mom adored me, but in terms of material stuff, while I never wanted for anything, I wasn’t overly indulged. I think there was a good balance.”
“And they spent a lot of time with you.”
Sympathy spread through her. “Yes.” She fought an urge to reach out and touch his hand with hers. “Until mom’s diagnosis, they did.”
“How old were you when she first got sick?”
Alessia replaced her wine, watching as the red spread over the glass, leaving beautiful legs running around the edges.
“Seven.” Alessia compressed her lips, the memories so fresh in her mind despite the number of years that had passed between. “It was the most beautiful summer’s day. You know what Ondechiara is like in the summer – there’s nowhere quite so beautiful or charming. Mom used to talk about the town in North Carolina that she came from and say Ondechiara reminded her of it.” Alessia lifted her shoulders. “We’d taken a picnic down to the beach and then walking back up the steps she just collapsed. It was hot, so at first dad thought it was heatstroke or something, but he called the doctor anyway. You know how much he loved her.” A melancholy smile spread over Alessia’s face as she remembered her parents’ picture-perfect marriage – something she’d always wanted for herself.
Massimo inclined his head in silent agreement, prompting her to continue.
“It was paraneoplastic syndrome, associated with lung cancer.”
“She didn’t smoke.”
“No, not ever. Some pe
ople are just unlucky.” She grimaced. “As you know, she was in remission a couple of times before it came back – too aggressive to fight.”
“That must have been so hard on you.”
“Yeah, it was the worst.” She grimaced. “Dad was always protective of me but after that – after mom – he started to worry non-stop. He babied me.”
“Yes.” He hesitated a moment. “It’s one of the reasons I felt protective of you, before.”
“I was twenty years old,” she reminded him with a droll twist of her lips. “And I saw marrying you as a way to escape, not compound, my lifestyle.”
