Page 22 of SINS & Temptation

He motions to the mounds of paper-wrapped ground chuck, pork, and veal. “How much did you buy?”

I shrug, trying to look nonchalant. “I’m not exactly a wizard at converting metric to standard, but judging by the weight, I’d say we’re staring down the barrel of eight to ten pounds.”

His brows arch in surprise. “Went for the traditional bowling ball portion, did we?” He scrutinizes the mountain of food laid out. “What happened to Antonio’s?”

“Who?”

“The restaurant that gave you the menu.”

Innocently, I shrug. “There’s a lovely market just down from Riley’s that had everything we’d need for a cozy meal. And I’m in Italy, the home of marinara. Plus, I’ve always dreamed of making a home-cooked meal in a lavish gourmet kitchen.”

I gesture enthusiastically at the restaurant-quality space, only to knock over the jar of sauce for the third time. With an embarrassed smile, I quickly set it out of reach.

“Is that so?” he asks, shaking his head. “I really don’t have time for this,” he mutters, frustration seeping from every word.

“I’m almost done,” I assure him, lying through my teeth.

“You are if my options are E. coli poisoning or death by beef.”

“You should’ve worn your buffet pants.”

With a huff, he sets down the flowers and rolls up his sleeves, brushing past me to head to the pantry. It’s the size of a gas station convenience store, so God knows what he’s grabbing.

“How long did you know I was across the street today? The whole time?” I holler into the pantry.

“Yes,” he replies back, with the calm of a seasoned sniper. “The whole time.”

“How?”

He reemerges with two black aprons, slipping one over his head and the other over mine. “Keeping an eye on you is my favorite pastime. I’m always watching.”

Always? Of course he is. At least I’m not the only stalker.

Then, with a firm grip on my wrist, he drags me to the sink and starts washing my hands.

“What the—? I am not a toddler,” I protest.

“No, you just cook like one.” He pats my hands dry, tilts my chin up with a commanding finger, and presses a quick, possessive kiss to my lips. “Watch and learn, Bella.”

And so, I do.

For the next hour, I watch my big, bad mob boss transform into Julia Child. How being able to cook makes one of the sexiest men alive a million times hotter is beyond me. But as he lifts a wooden spoon of sauce to my lips, sweet baby Jesus, it sure as hell does.

“Mmm,” I let out, savoring the flavor.

He suckles a drop of sauce off my lower lip, his brow furrowing in concentration. “It needs a little...”

He reaches for his phone and dials. It rings once. “Si, signore.”

“Chef, I need a bottle of Nebbiolo.”

“Why?” The voice on the other end isn’t the chef. It’s his brother, Dante.

“No reason.” Watching Enzo clam up in front of his brother is like watching the keeper of the Holy Grail withhold its location from the town crier.

Dante chuckles. “I know you’re not making your world-famous pasta, or you would have invited me.”

“World-famous pasta sauce?” I mouth.

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