Page 48 of Robbie (Confessions 1)

“Correct me if I’m wrong, but chefs stand at work, don’t they? I’m not seeing the problem.” Priest’s eyes lowered to Julien’s lips. “If you’re not going to be of use to me, get out of our bed, Julien, and leave me alone.”

“That’s rude,” Julien said, even as he climbed off the bed and walked to the bedroom door. “But really, I think we should keep that,” he said, aiming his eyes at the very obvious erection in Priest’s sweats, “for the one I have a feeling is going to love every single inch of it.”

Priest smirked and pointed to the door, and as Julien walked through it, he turned and took another look at the man who’d gone back to his work. They may come with a lot of baggage, but what was inside had always been worth the heavy burden of carrying it.

Chapter Fifteen

CONFESSION

I deserve to have a good time, damn it.

And it’s not like I’m doing anything wrong.

“ROBERT ANTONIO BIANCHI, if your skinny behind is not sitting at my kitchen table in the next ten minutes, I’m feeding your lunch to Michelangelo!”

As his nonna’s voice drifted into annoyed Italian mutterings, Robbie reached for the phone he’d dumped on his bedside table and cracked an eye open to look at the time. When his eyes cleared and he saw it was about to hit noon, he jackknifed up as though someone had pinched him on the ass.

Shit, he’d slept for nearly ten hours? He must’ve been more exhausted than he thought—not that that was a surprise. He hadn’t gotten home until two in the morning after a three-day shift.

“Robert! I won’t tell you again.”

“I’m up. I’m up. Rilassati,” Robbie said, as he got to his feet and ran a hand through his hair, and then he followed the mouth-watering scent coming from the kitchen.

As he made his way down the narrow hall, he found his nonna standing at the gas stove scooping a mountain of freshly cooked pasta onto a plate. Robbie came up behind her and peered over her shoulder to see her famous spaghetti alle vongole simmering in a pan, and then he kissed her on the cheek.

“Oooh, yum. I must’ve been a good boy. That’s my favorite,” Robbie said as he took a seat at the small wooden table off the main kitchen. “Are you spoiling me, vecchietta, or is Vanessa home for lunch too?”

“No, she has that job interview today. I hope she gets it. Those night shifts worry me. But this, this is for you. Not that you deserve it. Who do you think you’re calling old, young man?”

Robbie winked at her as he crossed one of his legs over the other and twirled a long strand of his hair around his finger. “Only the prettiest lady in the room, of course.”

Nonna looked over her shoulder and arched a dark eyebrow, and as always, Robbie was struck by her flawless skin, even at seventy-five. “I believe that would be you in that getup. Let me guess, Felicity?”

Robbie looked down at the red velvet onesie his sister had given him for Christmas, grinned, and took hold of the drawstrings on either side of the hood. “She knows me best. She even got one with two balls on it,” Robbie said, as he flicked the white pompoms at the end of each string.

Nonna shook her head, and as she walked over with a stacked plate, Robbie noticed her arms shaking a little before she set it down in front of him. “There’s so much food on this plate I can barely carry it. Mangia. You’re all skin and bones.”

“I do eat,” Robbie said as he picked up the block of Parmesan and the grater. “I just take after Mom, you know that.”

“She needs to eat more too,” Nonna said, and winced at the cheese Robbie was grating over her pasta, something she viewed about as favorably as she would him committing a felony. “But what you need is a man to look after you. Someone who’ll fatten you up.”

Robbie rolled his eyes at the familiar argument that always surrounded him whenever he was with any of his female relatives—which was practically all of them—and then wondered what his nonna would think if he told her he’d just agreed to date a world-renowned chef—and a lawyer.

“How many times do I have to tell you,” Robbie said, “I don’t need a man.” Which was true. He didn’t. But he sure did want two in particular.

She put a plate down for herself and pulled a chair out. “You may not need one,” she said as she settled in on her seat, her breathing a little more labored from her exertions in the kitchen. “But it would be nice to have. You work hard. You deserve someone to look after you. We all do. Someone to spoil us.”

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