Page 73 of Some Like It Hott

“Preston—” I’m still at a loss for words. There are two platters and three big bowls of food, everything family style—chicken parm, manicotti, Bolognese, rigatoni and broccoli, something that looks like penne alla vodka. “Where is thisfrom?”

He hesitates.

“Bella Italia?” I name a place in Bend.

“Carmine’s,” he says.

“In Bend?”

“In New York.” He looks a little sheepish. “It’s my favorite takeout in New York. It’s my pump-up takeout. What I eat the night before a big presentation or meeting or deal.”

“Holy—”

Tears fill my eyes.

“Nat—” he says helplessly.

“No, it’s good crying. It’s—I was so hungry and tired, and this is—better than sex.”

He laughs. “Don’t say that.”

“Better than sex with men other than you,” I correct myself, and he laughs again and kisses me.

“Sit.” He sweeps my chair out.

“How did you get me takeout from New York?” I sit and spread my napkin out as he does the same across from me.

“Franklin.”

I recognize the name of his assistant from work conversations I’ve partially overheard. “He flew it out. And Hanna kept you busy for a while.”

Oh. Hence all the questions.

“You—” I’m still having trouble with full sentences.

“I’ve always wanted to do something like this. Ridiculous. Extravagant. Justbecause. On impulse. For fun,” he says and the corners of his eyes crinkle, and the last vestiges of me, the last parts I was holding back from him, give themselves up.

“I love this,” I say, because I won’t say what I really mean.

He points with his fork. “Dig in.”

I do and moan into the first bite.

“Nat,” he warns.

We’ve been over this a few times this week; he really likes how much I love food. “Don’t worry,” I say. “I’m too hungry to do anything except eat.”

“You’ve said that before,” he says.

Pretty much before every meal this week.

But we do eat. We eat and eat, until he says, “Save a little room.”

“What for?” I ask.

He opens the closet and pulls down a box. A white box with red writing on the top, tied with red-and-white string.

“That’s—”

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