Page 86 of Velvet Cruelty

I carefully slice a potato into halves. We both know it was Bobby who gave me the orgasm. He just wants me to talk to him and I won’t.

Doc swings his long legs against the counter. “You gonna stay and cook once Morelli’s wife moves in?”

My mouth falls open. “Mr. Morelli’s married?”

Doc laughs. “What’s wrong, Tits? Jealous Prince Elliot’s already taken?”

I drop my gaze to the potatoes, furious at myself for talking.

“Don’t worry. He’s not married yet. But he needs pure-blooded Italian babies to inherit his eighteenth-century wine glasses or whatever the fuck. He’ll have a wife by summer.”

I try to focus on cutting vegetables, but I can’t stop picturing an Italian goddess with golden skin and liquid brown eyes. Eli’s rubies around her neck. My plans to be a housemaid go up in smoke. There would be nothing more humiliating than waiting on Mr. and Mrs. Morelli.

“What are you making?” Doc asks. “Harvey said it was an ‘old family recipe’ but judging by what’s going on here, that’s bullshit. Unless you’re doing mayonnaise salad.”

I can’t help but smile. “I never said it was my family recipe.”

“Very clever, Tesorina. Another gift from your Zia Teresa?”

He remembered her name. A silly little thrill goes through me. “It is actually. Brodo is Zia’s favourite. And mine.”

“Right.” Doc’s gaze lingers on the simmering pot.

“Did your mom make brodo?”

He snorts. “My mom was a pillhead, Tits. Kraft mac and cheese was the only pasta I got growing up.”

Before I can think of what to say to this, Bobby wanders in. “What’s going on? Why can I smell—”

He sees me and does a double take. Doc laughs. “Here’s a boy whose mama made pasta, Tesorina. Basher’s nearly as bad as Morelli. Won’t go to Italian restaurants because it doesn’t taste enough like home.”

“Hi,” I say, avoiding eye contact. “Welcome back.”

“Hey.” Bobby’s wearing a cable knit sweater and looks every bit my former math tutor. “Are you… good?”

I think of his stubbled cheeks brushing my thighs, the soft swipes of his tongue, the tattoo of a swordfish on his heavy bicep… I stare down at the cutting board. I know people hook up with people and then talk to them again. Why can’t I?

Doc cackles into the awkward silence. “Hey, you know what actually tastes like home to Basher, Tits?”

“Shut the fuck up,” Bobby snarls.

I manage to smile at him. “Thanks.”

“Anytime.”

“Aww lovers reunion,” Doc mumbles, shoving a cigarette between his teeth. He pulls a lighter from his pocket and snaps it so a tiny flame appears.

I almost have a heart attack. “You can’t smoke in here!”

Doc raises his blond brows. “Pardon?”

“I just cleaned! Can’t you go outside?”

He scowls, and for a moment I’m sure he’s going to light it just to spite me. But then the cigarette and lighter vanish. “If I behave, can I kiss you again?”

I remember those slow, confident laps of his tongue and my face becomes unbearably hot. “I… No. You can just have healthier lungs.”

Doc rolls his eyes and I’m reminded so forcibly of Zia Teresa I almost burst into tears. Maybe it’s fate. No matter where I go, some grumpy Italian will refuse to quit smoking around me. I pick up the cutting board and slide the chopped vegetables into the pot.

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