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He takes my hand and leads me to the corner—definitely the heart of his home—an amazing white, polished kitchen. He puts my wine on the counter and cups my face.
“We shouldn’t be this nervous,” I whisper.
“Oh, but we care too much.”
“You care?” I sound needy, but my fragile self-confidence needs all the proof.
“I’ve never stopped caring, Blue.”
A sob chokes me, but it’s swallowed by Massi’s lips crashing onto mine with desire so strong I have to grip his shoulders to stay upright. He takes my mouth as if it has always belonged to him. And it has. I part my lips and our tongues move in a rhythm of released tension.
His kiss is loving and playful, but also possessive and commanding. No room for negotiation. Massi Cassinetti leads us into a new stage of this date, my silly trepidations and self-control losing their power.
“Blue, I better get the dinner started,” he whispers against my lips, but doesn’t pull away.
“Hm,” I moan, unable to string together anything more intelligible.
“Thank you for telling me you were nervous. When do we learn to speak about our feelings?” He chuckles.
“Let’s start tonight.”
We finally pull away, but stay close, our eyes locked.
“That’s a great idea.”
Comfortable silence stretches while we stare at each other, smiles lingering on our faces. I’m overwhelmed by joy, and if this will be my only night with this man I’m going to get all I can from him.
“Okay, woman, let me cook for you.” He kisses the crown of my head and strolls around the counter.
I climb onto the stool and watch him create, fascinated by the simple elegance of his dance around the kitchen. Something I’ve observed countless times, yet it’s never ceased to amaze me how Massi carries himself in his work space. His movements are calculated yet performed with ease.
It’s like watching a tango. I smile at the realization. That’s it—Massimo Cassinetti has been tangoing since he first took a carving knife in his hands.
“So, this place is really yours,” I say, trying to distract myself from the tattoos on his forearm calling me to touch them as he whisks something in a small bowl.
He throws his head back and laughs. It’s the most beautiful thing to see and hear. God, I’m getting sappy.
“No, I borrowed it for tonight, to impress you.”
“It didn’t work at all,” I tease. “But really, not to be crass, but I didn’t know a chef, even as amazing as you”—I pause and his chests puffs up, which pleases me more than it should—“makes this much money.”
“I’ve done okay for myself, but it’s not just the restaurant. Phillip helped me invest my money and the man is pretty good at spotting opportunities, so I increased my earnings thanks to him.”
“So you’re a millionaire now?” I giggle, but then freeze when he looks at me, shrugging. “Billionaire?” I gasp.
“I’ve kept my wealth under the radar and I like it that way. Does it matter to you?” He moves around the counter, adding spices to the bowl.
“It surprises me. I’m impressed you’ve done this well.”
“I make way more than I can use, so I reinvest. Mostly with young, promising chefs. I have shares in several restaurants in the city. Well, in the country really.”
“You’re helping young chefs open their own restaurants?” I recall Richie and Manuela from the Market.
“In a nutshell, yes, but it’s not that simple. They have to work with me and they have to have good business acumen and plan for their own place. And Phillip gets involved too, making sure they follow through. Obviously I’m too busy in my kitchen, so I’m more of a silent partner after the initial investment.”
“Why are you doing it? There must be more passive ways to invest.”
Oh, but I’m falling deep and fast right now. The casual way he speaks about helping others. I know, he gets his profit share at the end, but the idea of him succeeding beyond his own kitchen is so hot.
