Page 38 of Flake It Til You Make It

“You’re sure I can’t help?”

“I’ve got this. You’re doing the important part, anyway.”

“I am?” Taylor couldn’t believe it.

“Keeping me focused, but nottoofocused.”

Taylor opened his mouth to say it was just a lasagna, but he had a feeling that wasn’t what it was to Rocco.

“This matters to you, doesn’t it?” he asked.

Rocco glanced over at him, his hands still moving with those expert, quick movements. “Yes,” he said. “I think of the couples who’ve celebrated twenty anniversaries at my parents’ restaurant. Who, every single year, eat the same mushroom ravioli and it brings them back to the night they fell in love. The grandfathers who bring their families in, passing their love of food to future generations. How my cousin Luca and his husband Oliver put food on the menu of their restaurant that reminds them of all their best times. Food is a love language, you know?”

And the town had rejected Rocco’s attempts to show them that.

“That’s beautiful,” Taylor said, because it was. More than ever, he wanted to make this right, not just for him, because it would be a terrible thing to destroy the hope in Rocco’s eyes, the dream he held of continuing his family’s tradition.

Rocco shrugged, but he could tell how much the rejection had hurt him.

“And,” Taylor added, because he’d never known when to quit, “this town is perfect for that. I know they haven’t all puttheir best feet forward, but they will, and you’ll see. There’s nothing more important to this town than tradition and nostalgia.”

“That’s why I bought this place,” Rocco said. “And I hope you’re right.”

He sprinkled on the last layer of cheese.

“I am,” Taylor insisted. He didn’t know when Rocco’s fight had become his, too, but it had.

“Now to get this in the oven,” Rocco said.

Rocco was not particularly big or bulky with muscle, so Taylor watched with more than a little surprise as he hefted the huge, heavy pan effortlessly and slid it into the oven.

And he couldn’t deny that Rocco’s hidden strength, both innerandouter, was more of a turn-on than he’d anticipated.

Rocco closed the oven door with a firm thump and turned to Taylor. “Now I know you don’t drink coffee, but I could use a latte. You can’t approach a holiday without plenty of caffeine in your system.”

Taylor’s brain must still be short-circuiting over how much he wanted to feel those unexpected muscles Rocco was hiding under his sweater, because he said, “Why don’t you make something I’d like.”

A wide smile broke over Rocco’s face, filled with so much delight, Taylor would agree to try coffee a dozen or so times, just to witness that look on his face again.

“You mean it?”

A better man probably would havegoat-cheesedout of this, once he saw what it meant to Rocco, but Taylor nodded.

“I got you,” Rocco said, rubbing his hands in excitement. Taylor followed him out of the back kitchen and behind the counter, watching as Rocco flipped switches and turned the enormous espresso machine on.

“You like sweet,” Rocco stated, rather than asked.

“Yeah,” Taylor said, blushing a little. Maybe he should’ve grown out of his sweet tooth, but he never had.

“Oh, I’ve got sweet for you, baby,” Rocco said, shooting him a teasing look. He worked the machine like he’d done it a thousand times before, pulling levers and grabbing chilled ingredients from the fridge under the counter by feel alone.

Finally, he set a tall glass in front of Taylor, the top covered in a towering mountain of whipped cream, dusted with tiny flecks of spice.

Taylor picked it up, sniffing at it as Rocco made himself a coffee next. “Itsmellsgood,” he said.

Carefully, he sipped, whipped cream smearing across his upper lip. To his surprise, the harsh acidity of the coffee he’d tried before didn’t hit him this time. This was full and rich and mellow, somehow all at the same time. And sweet too, but with a bit of almond cookie taste, the cookies his mom had always baked for Christmas.

The ones he’d missed, like a gnawing toothache.

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