Page 72 of Luca
The best part of my days were dinners with my wife.
She preferred to stay home. Dinner and a movie, she’d say. She couldn’t cook for shit so she’d order takeout, then after we ate, she’d drag me to the couch, put her feet on me and put an old movie on.
She’d get lost in the movie. And I? All I felt and smelled was her. I waited for her to be ready, to make the next move. I didn’t want to push her, but there was no denying this sizzling attraction brewing between us.
When I stepped into the penthouse, the smell of roasted meat and rosemary wafted over my way.
“Honey, I’m home,” I yelled, grinning like a fool. “Kitchen is still standing and something smells delicious.”
My wife poked her head out of the kitchen doorway, a spatula in her hand.
“Finally,” she beamed. “Come over here and get this goddamn pan out of the oven. I can’t bend over with this giant belly.”
I chuckled as she disappeared into the kitchen and I moved, following her.
When I entered, she exclaimed. “Tada.”
The little table was set up with dishware I didn’t know I had and two candles in the middle.
“Wow, looks romantic,” I said with a smile. “You didn’t have to work this hard to seduce me, wife. All I need is a kiss and I’m yours.”
I reached for one of the roasted potato halves when she swatted my hand away.
“Wait until dinner,” she scolded but her smile ruined it all.
Luckily, the potato was still in my hand, so I put it in my mouth. It was delicious.
“When did you learn how to cook?”
“Cooking show,” she exclaimed. “Did you know there were cooking shows? Like real cooking shows. You can cook along with them!”
I chuckled. “I did.”
Not that I’d seen many.
“Anyhow, it helped me get all this together. If you get the roast out, we can test it. I also ordered Chinese in case this fails.”
Pressing a kiss to her cheek, I chuckled. “It smells delicious, so I think Chinese will be a no go. Now go sit down. I got it from here.”
“Luca,” she protested. “I’m the wife.”
“And I’m the husband. This is a partnership, and I don’t want anything happening to my wife and unborn child.”
She got flustered and her cheeks turned a deep red. It happened every time I referred to the baby as mine. She was mine, but Margaret didn’t know it yet.
She sat down, and I carried the large serving tray with the roast, potatoes and peas. We dug in and either I was overly hungry or my wife got the cooking under control.
“This is good, wife,” I complimented her cooking. “Better than a restaurant.”
“Thank you.” She gave me that smile that had the power to bring me to my knees. “What’s your favorite dish? Maybe I’ll try that next.”
I resisted the urge to lift her and sit her on my lap. If temperamental Margaret was attractive, amiable Margaret was downright irresistible.
“Fix homemade ricotta raviolis and my heart is forever yours,” I told her amused at her enthusiasm.
She reached for her phone and typed something into it.
When I cocked my eyebrow, she explained, “I forget everything. I’m making note of it.”
