Page 26 of Tank
“So why invite me back here? Why cook for me?”
Her questions have a sharpness, but there’s an undercurrent there, a tug that makes my gut twist. I look at her, her eyes filled with something far more dangerous than her brother’s snarling men, and I know the real answer, the one I’m not telling her yet — I don’t want her to be a stranger.
“You challenged me.”
It’s not the whole truth, but close enough. What I don’t say is that I want to impress her. I want to see that teasing smile disappear, to catch that split second of shock when she learns just how fucking good I am at this. There’s more to it, though. This is about Moretti, too. She’s my way in, my best chance to get close enough to Victor to do real damage.
But that’s not why my pulse kicks up every time she leans closer toward me.
Bianca hums, the sound thoughtful, pleasant. “So you take all your challenges this seriously?”
“Only the ones worth winning.”
She rolls her eyes. “Wow. Really? Do you come up with these lines in advance or just wing it?”
“You’re still here, aren’t you?”
Her lips part slightly, and her eyes widen just enough to show me she doesn’t have a quick comeback ready. For the first time, I see her throat work a little, a flicker of uncertainty crossing her face, and it’s exactly like I imagined. Just seeing it makes my head swim and my chest pound, like maybe the thing I wanted most from this encounter wasn’t just to impress her but to get past all those walls and see her like this: unguarded and just a little vulnerable.
The unexpected rush of it makes me dizzy. I busy myself with the pan, focusing on the sauce, the sizzle of butter and sage, the splash of white wine, the way the delicate aroma fills the space between us.
“You’re serious about this, then,” she says, her voice lower, almost to herself, but still loud enough that I can hear.
“About what?”
“Impressing me.”
“You sound surprised.”
“Not surprised you’re trying,” Bianca says, her eyes bright and locked on me, “just impressed that it might actually work.”
Those words send a jolt through me and I work fast — transferring the ravioli to finish in the sauce, where they bubble and soak up every bit of the rich, fragrant liquid.
I glance at Bianca.
She’s still watching me, her arms crossed, but she’s no longer smirking. She’s curious. Intrigued.
And something else.
Something that makes my chest feel too tight.
I focus on the food — plating the pasta with a dash of salt, pepper, and some chopped fresh sage.
Then I slide a plate in front of her. “Moment of truth, sweetheart.”
She eyes the dish. “If this sucks, I’m never letting you hear the end of it.”
"Eat.”
She picks up the fork and takes a bite. Her lips close around it, and I watch, transfixed, as her eyes widen. As her throat works as she swallows. And then it happens — a sound — deep, full-bodied, involuntary, pulled from somewhere deep inside her.
A moan.
My entire body goes still, every nerve on high alert.
Bianca’s eyes flutter shut, just for a second, like she’s feeling this pasta in her soul, like it’s shattered that careful facade she holds so close, the one that makes me want to break through to see her just like this — unguarded. Vulnerable.
I exhale sharply. Fuck.
