Page 25 of Before I Say I Don't
When I returned, I was greeted by the sight of the kitchen island transformed into a scene straight out of a glossy restaurant magazine: plates stacked, wings steaming, golden fries, crisped to perfection, piled high, and—of all things—a candle burning in the center like he’d gotten the memo about romance.
A chill slipped out of me.
It was nice. It was normal. It was the kind of evening I wished we shared more regularly.
“Damn,” he said, eyeing me like I’d walked in naked, then approached me and closed the space between us. “Look at you. Later, I’m biting that shoulder, pulling those panties off with my teeth, making you call my name until the neighbors turn their TV up—then flipping you over and starting again.”
I smirked and raised a brow. “All that?”
“All that,” he confirmed, no hesitation.
My body warmed just hearing him say it.
Two weeks. Two long, frustrating, dry weeks. I couldn’t wait.
“I still can’t believe you cooked,” I teased, leaning on the counter, as Viangelo returned to the stove.
He smirked, then tossed over his shoulder, “You saying that like a niggacan’tcook.”
“Oh, I know you can. It’s just… been a while.”
And it was true.
If there was one skill Viangelo truly excelled at, he could throw down in the kitchen. I often found myself reminiscing about the early days of our relationship, when he used to whip up meals for me on a regular basis. It was likely his way of charming me and reeling me in, and to be honest, it definitely worked.
“Work,” he said simply—the same excuse he used for everything. “But since you’re always cooking and stressing over wedding plans, I figured I’d cater to you tonight. Give you one night where you can kick back and sit yo' fine ass down and eat.”
I chuckled. "No complaints from me,” I responded, settling into my chair with a smile.
With practiced ease, he plated our food.
I reached for the chilled bottle of Sauvignon Blanc I kept on standby, feeling that a little celebration was in order. For one,thatsurprise deserved wine. Secondly, after the day I had, Ideserved something crisp enough to scrub the seating chart and bridal party drama from my head, even if only for a little while.
As he dug into his meal, I observed him closely like a jury scrutinizing a witness on the stand, searching for any subtle hints or signs.
I took a breath and decided to step into something that had been rolling around in my head all that week.
“Do you know a guy named Roman?”
Viangelo paused, his gaze meeting mine as he swallowed thoughtfully.
“RomanHill?”
“Yes,” I affirmed, watching him closely, trying to gauge his reaction.
“Yeah,” he replied, leaning back slightly. “That’s my guy. He’s in the wedding party. We go way back—summer leagues, little business here and there. He stays out on the West Coast now. Why do you ask?”
I felt my shoulders loosen an inch.
His response had come effortlessly, without any signs of hesitation or fabricated confusion.
“We went to law school together. I ran into him the other day at the courthouse, which then, he explained he’s here for the wedding.”
“Oh, word?” He leaned back, genuinely impressed. “Small world.”
“Very,” I agreed, taking a sip of my wine while keeping my focus trained on his expression.
Viangelo didn’t flinch, there was no awkward stiffness, or an overwhelming barrage of questions like one might expect from someone burdened with hidden secrets.
