Page 129 of The Best Friend Power Play

The front of the apron has Italians do it better scrawled across it. He folds his impressive arms across his chest. "You seemed oddly fixated on me wearing an apron last summer. Even said that men in aprons are hot. Remember?"

I take a seat at the table. "I remember."

"I saw this in a window display in town when I was coming back from the market this morning, so I thought I'd surprise you."

"I'm definitely surprised."

"In a good way?"

His gaze meets mine, and I smile. "In a very good way."

"Cool."

His brown eyes sparkle, and I will never take seeing him happy for granted ever again. Not after witnessing him in pain and devastated after what happened at the first game of the preseason last year.

His injury was serious enough on its own, but what made it even worse was that it aggravated the pre-existing labral tear in his left hip, making surgery the only viable option if he wanted to be able to walk pain-free ever again.

The good news is that after his hip arthroscopy, he's no longer in pain, his hip has healed, and he's able to do normal, everyday things.

The bad news is, playing professional hockey isn't one of those normal, everyday things.

His career is officially over.

"Wanna have lunch outside?" he suggests, holding two bowls of something that smells divine.

"Sure."

He hands me the bowls and races ahead to turn on the outdoor heaters since it's March, and despite the clear blue skies and sunshine, the temps hover in the mid-sixties, which for us Californians, is practically arctic. And he's basically naked.

I step out onto a sun-drenched terrace and am greeted by the breathtaking sight of the Tyrrhenian Sea sparkling under the bright Mediterranean sun. Below us, the town of Positano sprawls gracefully along the steep gray cliffs.

The houses and buildings cascade down the hillside in a stunning array of pastel colors—from sun-bleached yellows to vibrant pinks and soothing whites, all stacked haphazardly yet somehow perfectly harmonious. I've spent many hours out here, painting the scene, trying to capture the beauty of it.

We didn't choose to stay in Positano just because it's one of the most scenic places on the Amalfi Coast, half of the Palladino clan still live here, too. It's been great getting to know all of Culver's huge extended family.

Everyone offered for us to stay with them, but we didn't want to be a burden on anyone. Plus, we also wanted our own space and privacy.

When we saw this listing online, we fell in love with it immediately. The agent told us houses like this hardly ever come on the market. We got lucky.

Well, lucky, and privileged to be able to afford it.

Two weeks after Culver's hockey career ended, the money from his grandfather's inheritance landed in his bank account.

It means he's able to shell out the exorbitant fee for a six-month lease so we can stay at a gorgeous place like this.

I carry the bowls to the table, enjoying the cozy heat from the two large heaters he's switched on.

"What did you make?" I ask, sitting down, picking up a short, thick curl of pasta with my fork and inspecting it closely. The sauce is his amazing carbonara, but lately he's really been getting into making his own pasta.

Trust me when I say you have not lived until you've eaten home-made pasta at least once in your life.

"It's called strozzapreti," he informs me with a proud smile. "Fun fact. The name means priest-strangler."

"Really? Why?"

"We learned about it in class yesterday. It dates back to the Council of Trent, which I had to pretend I knew when or what that was."

I giggle. "I have no idea, either."

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