Page 70 of Wicked Roses

I yelp in surprise as Salvatore grabs me and pulls me toward him. We prepare the filets and place them carefully in the heated pan. The kitchen fills with the noise of them sizzling. With the potatoes roasting in the oven, it feels like we mightfinallycook a meal we’d be willing to serve to others.

“We’re getting better,” I say, plucking up my wine glass.

“All it took was almost burning down the kitchen a couple dozen times.”

I choke on my wine. “We weren’t that bad!”

“Phi, we set off the smoke alarm so many times, the factory across the street complained.”

“They did not!”

“Might as well. Every set of dinner rolls you tried to make came out covered in charcoal.” He grins as he picks up his own glass of wine and swallows a mouthful.

“And you wonder why I throw them at you!”

We spend the rest of the time in the kitchen accusing each other of being the worse cook until I’ve forgotten all about the anxiety and frustration that was plaguing me. The wine helps to lighten my mood, loosening the tightness in my body.

“You should take some time off,” Salvatore says. “The holidays are coming up. You have to have personal days saved up.”

My mouth quirks with curiosity. “How would you know?”

“Because I know you. You’re obsessed with your career.”

“Says the guy who ditched school at age seventeen to be trained at his nightclub.”

“It wasn’t my club yet.”

“Point still stands.”

He looks across the counter at me as he uses his knife to expertly slice into his slab of bloody steak. “Me being obsessed with my work doesn’t make you any less obsessed with yours.”

“You know what?” I sip more wine and shake my head. The tipsiness has definitely settled in, making my skin warmer. “You’re right. Iamobsessed with my career. The same way I was obsessed with earning perfect marks in school. I’m the last person at city hall every night. Even the cleaning crew leaves before me.”

He rips his piece of filet mignon off his fork, chews, then swallows. “The first step is admitting you have a problem.”

“Better late than never. I guess that’s why all my relationships have failed.”

Salvatore is an expert at the non-reaction reaction—his expression stays composed most times no matter what the topic of the conversation is. But in our years of knowing each other, I’ve learned how to decipher the context clues he gives.

The twitch of his cheek and set of his jaw. The subtlest flash in his eyes. Even the inflection in his normally rough, unemotional voice.

When I mention my failed relationships, he’s immediately pissed. His grip on his knife and fork tighten and the muscle in his jaw bounces as he chews on another bite of his steak. I shouldn’t be surprised; he never hid how territorial he was during our relationship. At one point he even threatened my favorite college professor, claiming he was a pervert (he turned out to be right. Professor Parsonswasoften inappropriate with female students. Myself included).

I’m about to change the subject when he finally responds.

“Their loss.”

“What about you?”

His left brow slightly rises. “What about me?”

I shrug. “You broke up with me.”

“Is that how it went? I’d say it was the other way around. You didn’t want to go on your birthday trip.”

“Because you were being a possessive ass.”

“I’m always an ass. You should’ve already been used to it.”

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