Page 11 of Ain’t Pucking Sorry (2-Hour Quickies #8)

Reese

"I cannot believe you threatened to arrest Ruthie Donovan for excessive flirting," I tell Massimo as we approach the Garden Home Saturday evening. "She's eighty!"

"I merely suggested that grabbing my bicep so frequently might be considered assault," he replies, balancing grocery bags in both arms. "Age is not a defense for wandering hands."

I laugh despite myself. "You did sort of sign up for this."

"The price of being irresistible," he sighs dramatically. "A burden I've carried my whole life."

I roll my eyes, but can't maintain my irritation—especially when he looks like that, sleeves rolled up, hair slightly tousled, completely in his element as he navigates the path to Della's apartment.

Della answers her door with a flourish, already wearing an apron that says "TOO HOT TO HANDLE" across the chest.

"Girls, our chef has arrived!" she announces to the room.

The other three are already inside—Marge perched on a barstool, Ruthie arranging flowers at the small table, Birdie, her oversized sunglasses in place and a folded cane leaning against her knee.

"Deputy Delicious," Ruthie greets, abandoning her flowers. "I’ve been dreaming of your… meatballs."

"Just my meatballs?" Massimo asks, letting the smile curl slow. "Not the baguette that goes with them?"

She cackles, eyes twinkling. "Oh, you’re very good."

I help him unpack ingredients—fresh herbs, tomatoes, cheeses I can't pronounce, and what appears to be homemade pasta. He's certainly prepared.

"Need any help?" I offer.

"Just your company," he says. "And maybe keep Ruthie's hands occupied with something other than my posterior."

Marge uncorks a bottle of wine. "Brought the good stuff. Three bottles, actually. Been saving it for a special occasion."

"What's the occasion?" I ask.

"Hot Italian in an apron," she replies without missing a beat. “Too bad it’s not an apron only .”

I choke on air.

Della's kitchen is small but organized, with hooks for pots and a wall of spices. Massimo navigates it like he's been there before, humming as he chops herbs and layers ingredients.

"So," Della says, settling next to me. "You two seem... friendly."

"We work together," I say quickly.

"Mm-hmm," Ruthie hums. "That's what they called it in my day too."

"How exactly did you end up deputized?" Birdie asks Massimo.

"Desperation," I answer.

"Irresistible charm," he counters simultaneously.

For the next hour, we watch him cook—explaining techniques, telling stories about learning from his mother, demonstrating the proper way to layer pasta. It's hypnotic and oddly intimate, seeing him this relaxed and in his element.

"More wine, dear?" Marge offers, refilling my glass before I can answer.

"I'm on duty," I protest weakly.

"You're supervising," Della corrects. "Supervisors supervise—they don’t work."

The conversation flows easily, wine disappearing at an alarming rate.

I find myself relaxing, laughing at Della's stories about her dating adventures ("He had seventeen cats.

SEVENTEEN."), and Marge's surprisingly raunchy commentary on her latest romance novel ("The pirate captain was clearly compensating with that sword").

"So," Marge says, eyeing Massimo over her wineglass, "any teammates of yours as hot as you? And single?"

"Are you into hockey players now, not pirates?" Massimo asks with a grin.

"Yes, but I'm not asking for me." Marge straightens in her chair. "My granddaughter, Becca. Good girl. Widow. Has a little boy who needs a father figure."

"Marge!" Della swats her arm. "You can't just order men like catalog items."

"Why not? The good ones sell out quickly." Marge turns back to Massimo, undeterred. "Well?"

"Actually," he says, "my teammate Harrison is single. Tall. Good teeth. Comes from a nice family."

"Perfect," Marge says with satisfaction. "I'll get his number later."

When the lasagna emerges from the oven, the smell alone makes me weak. Massimo serves it with a flourish, and the first bite silences the room.

"Marry me," Ruthie says after swallowing.

"Get in line," Marge counters.

For dessert, Massimo produces tiramisu that makes even Della bow to his expertise. As we eat, Birdie turns toward him.

"Tell us something about yourself we don't know."

"Like what?" he asks.

"Something real," she says, and for a moment, I could swear she can see right through those dark glasses.

He considers, then says, "I once learned how to bake someone's favorite childhood cake. Her grandmother made it, but she died without sharing the recipe. I called fourteen bakeries in three cities until I found someone who recognized my description."

"Did it work?" Della asks. "Did she fall in love with you?"

His smile turns a little sad. "No. But she cried when she tasted it. Said it was exactly right."

The mood shifts, something vulnerable suddenly present. I find myself seeing him differently—not just the charming hockey player, but someone capable of that kind of thoughtfulness.

"Your turn, Sheriff," Ruthie declares. "Tell us something we don't know about you."

"I hate bananas," I offer.

"Boring!" Della protests. "Something real."

“I hope she doesn’t mean bananas-bananas,” Marge says.

I take a deep breath, holding the smile. "I've never been outside of Ohio."

"Never?" Massimo asks, genuinely surprised.

"Never had the chance," I admit. "Or maybe the courage."

"Where would you go first?" Birdie asks.

"New York," I say without hesitation. "Or maybe Chicago. Somewhere with tall buildings and too many people."

"Not Italy?" Massimo teases.

"I'd need a better tour guide than you."

"Wound me, Sheriff. I am an excellent tour guide."

By the time we prepare to leave, my cheeks hurt from laughing. The night air is cool and clear, stars scattered like diamonds.

"Same time next week?" Della asks hopefully.

"I'll bring a new recipe," Massimo promises.

"Sheriff comes too," Birdie states. "For supervision."

"Of course," I say, unsure when I lost control of my own schedule.

Walking back toward my house, neither of us speaks for a moment. The silence is comfortable, broken only by distant crickets.

"You really learned to bake someone's special cake?" I ask finally.

"Yes."

"That's... nice. Really nice."

He stops walking, turns to look at me. "There's more to me than charm and hockey, you know."

"I'm starting to see that."

For a moment, I think he’s going to kiss me—he’s close enough, the air between us heavy with that same electric pull he had when he made me wait just to drive me crazy.

But instead, his mouth curves slow, knowing. A deliberate retreat. Foreplay in its purest form.

“Goodnight, Sheriff.”

I manage a steady, “Goodnight, Deputy,” even though my pulse is anything but.

I watch him walk toward Clara’s house, his shoulders relaxed, his stride confident—like a man who knows I’ll be thinking about that almost-kiss until he decides to finish it.

And damn him… he’s right.