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“Did you buy a restaurant out of business?” Her eyes take in the multiple bags sitting on the kitchen island.
“I’m not as good as my brother or my cousins in the kitchen. They’re all single dads, so they have an incentive. I thought I’d leave it to professionals.”
“I’m not a great cook myself.”
“Look at that, we already have so much in common,” I say.
“So, so much,” she says. “If you didn’t whip all this up, who’s responsible for the spread?”
“Belloni is one of the best Italian restaurants in the city.”
“Ooohhh!”
“They’re pretty strict when it comes to their food.”
“What do you mean?”
“You won’t find them listed on any food delivery services’ website,” I tell her. “You want their food? You show up. And it’s not like they’re next-door. It’s a trek to get there. That said, every delicious bite makes up for it.”
“I’m starved just inhaling the amazing aroma, and your glorious review makes it worse.”
“Wait ’till you sink your teeth into the food. It’s an experience. I got small portions of their most popular dishes and all of my favorites. I also bought a platter of Italian charcuterie and cheese. Dessert at Belloni is equally unforgettable. I stuck with the classics—tiramisu and cannoli. Belloni add their twist to cannoli by flavoring the mascarpone cream. It’s a thing of beauty.”
“Good thing I brought an appetite.”
“Good thing, indeed.”
“What can I do to help?” she asks, assessing the mountain of food.
“Nothing. You’re my guest. Sit and enjoy.” I point to a stool in front of the granite kitchen island.
“I can give you a hand.”
“Tonight, my job is to take care of all of your needs. I don’t want you lifting a finger, unless you’re about to wrap your hand around my cock.”
She swats my chest. “You’re impossible.”
“I know.” I grin. “Not to mention, your dress is way too pretty to play the role of sous-chef.”
“I feel like a princess.”
“You are a princess. My princess.”
“Lucky me.”
I open my mouth to say something, but I hesitate.
“What is it?” she asks.
It suddenly hits me. I have zero experience in dating.
“I’m flying blind here, Arianne,” I tell her. “Maybe this first date is a little too low key. Ideally, we’d be sitting at a Michelin-starred restaurant and I’d be serenading you with expensive wine and a meal to remember, but we’re so high-profile these days… I wanted tonight to be about us. No audience. No photographers. No celebrity bloggers. No paparazzi. No autographs to sign. Just Arianne and Beckett.”
Her mouth twists into a small smile. “Being with you is more important than being seen with you. And for the record just Arianne and Beckett is perfect.”
She gets on her toes and offers her lips.
No way am I going to say no to that.
