Page 59 of Sins of the Son

She hesitated.

“It’s just food, babygirl.” I threw the bedcover aside. “Come on. You haven’t eaten all day.”

She let out a long, dramatic sigh. “I guess so.”

I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. Damn, nothing was easy with this woman. She really was making me work for every inch of battleground I won. The stubborn little minx.

She got out of bed and followed me into the kitchen, where we surveyed the contents of the refrigerator and pantry together.

“How about pizza senza crosta?” I offered. “We could make it over the fire pit outside.”

She nodded.

She gathered up the ingredients, dropping them into a woven basket as I searched for the flat, cast-iron pan and metal grill basket in the cabinets. I took the ingredients from her and called over my shoulder as I headed for the veranda, “Get the glasses and the bottle of Franciacorta Bellavista out of the wine cooler.”

The moment I saw her heading outside with the bottle and glasses, my mouth dropped open. “Madonna santa! What are you doing out here half naked?”

“You said to bring the bottle and glasses!”

“I said to get them out of the cooler, not to come out here practically in the middle of winter in a jersey and bare feet!” I picked her up and carried her back into the house, muttering under my breath about how she was going to catch her death and how she couldn’t be relied upon to take decent care of herself. After tossing her into the center of my bed, I stormed into the dressing room and returned with a pair of her yoga pants. “Put these on.”

I left and returned again, holding a pair of my white athletic socks. I went down on my knees before her and grabbed one of her ankles.

“Wait! I have my own socks!”

I looked up at her. “Yes, but I like you wearing my socks.”

It was silly, of course. My socks stretched all the way up her calves under her yoga pants, but I didn’t care.

I then left a third time and returned with one of my large hoodies.

“What’s that?”

“Arms up. No arguments.”

With a sigh, she raised her arms. I pulled the hoodie over her head. It might as well have been a blanket on her, it was so big.

She pulled out the front and looked down. It said Cavalieri Wines. She smirked. “You did this on purpose.”

I winked. “My name looks good on you.”

“Don’t start. I’m hungry.”

I lifted her back into my arms and carried her through the house.

“I can walk, you know.”

“Stop arguing.”

I carried her outside to the fire pit, which was placed just to the side of the cabana in front of the grotto pool. I lit the fire with ease, placed the cast-iron skillet on the flames, and poured a mason jar of salsa di pomodoro into it. While she used the peppermill to crack Tellicherry black peppercorns over the mixture, I sprinkled some sea salt over it then added several sprigs of basil. As we waited for the sauce to bubble, I brushed several slices of ciabatta with garlic and arranged them in the grill basket, setting it over the open flame to make crostini.

I popped open the chilled bottle of Franciacorta Bellavista and poured two glasses as she snuggled into the faux fur blankets on the cabana mattress. I handed her a glass before turning my attention back to the simmering sauce. I added the mozzarella di bufala and covered the pan to let it melt. I then flipped the ciabatta grilling basket to char the other side of the bread slices before leaning back into the cabana with my glass of sparkling wine.

We clinked glasses and sipped as we stared out over the neat rows of twisted, naked vines and trampled soil that was the Cavalieri vineyard after the harvest.

I took another sip and savored the crisp, floral pear notes as I listened to the crack and pop of the fire and the gentle buzz of the nearby insects.

I pulled the cast-iron skillet from the flame and opened the grilling basket, transferring the warmed slices of ciabatta bread to the edges of the skillet. Using the edge of one slice of bread, I pushed some gooey mozzarella, tomato sauce, and basil onto a crostini and handed it to her.

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