Page 30 of All I Desire

“You mean some people don’t like animals?”

“You’d be surprised. Hey, are you hungry?”

We lock eyes and I laugh. “Ah. Yeah. I am.”

“I mean, for food.” She punches my thigh lightly, a little tap.

“Definitely. I haven’t eaten all day. And your lasagna smells incredible. You must’ve spent all day on it.”

A frown crosses her face. “Well. About that. C’mon into the kitchen.”

She rises to her feet and so do I. We make our way into her small kitchen and she motions for me to sit at the small table. She sets down two plates and utensils, then hands me a corkscrew and a bottle of expensive Cabernet.

“It’s a little casual around here,” she says, placing two glasses in front of me.

“I love casual.” The cork slides easily out of the wine and I pour. We grin and clink glasses, and I’m wondering when the last time was that I felt this comfortable with a new woman.

Oh, right. My ex-wife, decades ago. Hunh.

My mouth begins to water as I watch her bend slightly to take the lasagna out of the oven, then waters for real when I see the food. I haven’t seen lasagna like this since visiting my grandmother in Brooklyn as a kid.

“Damn. You’ve got skills.”

“So. Full confession.” She sets the lasagna on a potholder in the middle of the table, then turns to grab a spatula. “My mom made this. She makes incredible lasagna. I didn’t want to mislead you or anything, but, I’m not the best cook.”

I grin. “But you wanted to invite me over for dinner and cared enough to impress me with good food.”

“Exactly. I don’t want you to think I could recreate this all on my own. I’m great with a microwave, though.” Shrugging, she carves out a square of lasagna and places it on my plate.

She slides her portion of food onto her plate, then sits. “You know, some guys expect women to be perfect. To be the cool girl, to have a great job, to be a gourmet chef. I can do some things really well. Like design jewelry. Like run a resort. Ask me to do anything in the kitchen but boil water and make coffee and I’m lost. Might as well tell you that up front.”

Holding my knife and fork, I look up at her. “I’m a thirty-nine-year-old man. I can feed myself. I fail to see the problem here. Good food, amazing company.”

A gorgeous smile spreads on her face, and warmth spreads through my chest.

* * *

NATALIA

Oh God.I like this guy. Really like him.

First off, he’s got better table manners than most guys I know. Okay, so that means he chews with his mouth closed and knows how to use a knife and fork. He also doesn’t talk with a mouth full of food. Considering the things that I’ve witnessed at the dinner table with four brothers and a string of bad dates, that’s no small feat.

He’s clearly an excellent communicator, asking about me, answering questions about himself, and making sure there are no lulls in the conversation.

No insults slip from his mouth. No negative statements about how I look or how much food I eat. No disparaging comments about his ex. No use of the word “bitch” when talking about other women. We devour Ma’s tiramisu for dessert and he asks about how I got into jewelry making.

“I took a class in college. Found that it calmed my nerves. It’s all about focus. Bead by bead.” I shrug, trying to make it seem like no big deal. In truth, back when I was eighteen, making jewelry was the one thing that prevented both panic attacks and the self-destructive urge to call my ex.

Those little beads saved my life.

“And what about you? Any hobbies?”

He smiles sheepishly, and the expression makes my heart soften. “I’m a gearhead. I love engines. Fixing things gives me a feeling of accomplishment. Probably like when you finish a necklace.”

Trying to find common ground in conversation. Such a simple thing, but something few men are able to pull off. Either I’ve only been exposed to some really shitty guys, or Matthew is dating gold.

“You’re sure you don’t want me to help clean up?” he asks when the meal is finished. He grabs a dish towel from the counter as I’m stacking dishes in the sink.

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