Page 49 of Delicious (Delicious #1)

Chapter Eight

Rob

B efore you judge…don’t. I had no idea what I was doing. I could blame my sudden lapse in judgment on a myriad of things, but the simple truth was that I wanted Mateo. The popular quarterback was suddenly, possibly attainable. He’d let me touch him, devour him, and rub up against him the way I’d fantasized so many years ago. And then he’d blown my mind.

Sadly, once wasn’t enough. I had to have more.

Amber’s PR idea was a good one, but better yet, it gave us an excuse to spend time together. I’d happily subject myself to his wrath if it meant I got an up-close and personal view of those long lashes and full lips. And if there was a snowball’s chance in hell he was willing to see how far we could go, I was all in. I wanted to be inside him…deep, deep inside him.

However, I’d been raised in a nice midwestern family who prized good manners above all else. There’d be no jumping Mateo’s bones the second he showed up on my doorstep. No, I vowed to show a little restraint tonight and find some common ground that didn’t involve sex or violence. Food was my best bet. Specifically…marinara sauce.

“Marinara?”

I motioned for Mateo to give me his leather jacket as he stepped into the foyer. “Yeah.”

“What happened to taking me apart? Talk about false advertising,” he snarked.

I lowered my head to hide my smile, draped his jacket on a bench, and headed through a maze of rooms to the family-style kitchen. “Can I get you something to drink?”

“Beer, if you have it. If not, I—holy freaking crap.” Mateo marched to the wall of windows overlooking the sun setting over the Pacific. “This is a killer view. When they were building this place, I remembered thinking it was going to be some monster mansion, but it’s really…nice.”

“Thanks, I like it.” I popped the tops off two beers and joined him at the window, handing him one. “I bought it from the contractor after the original investor pulled out.”

“Does anyone else live here?”

“No, just me.”

Mateo lifted a curious brow. “By yourself? Geez, it’s fuckin’ huge.”

He was right.

But I’d earned a fuckton of money and had invested wisely in stocks and real estate. I still owned condos in Manhattan and Dallas, a house in Hollywood Hills, an estate in Indiana near my family, and this house, a five-bedroom beach chalet.

It was more house than I needed and I swore I wasn’t one to flaunt my wealth, but privacy was important. Some athletes were stalked like rock stars and while that wasn’t me, I wanted to be insulated from prying eyes…to be on the safe side.

Besides, I’d always loved this stretch of beach. I used to come out here whenever I’d felt overwhelmed by college courses and football…and life in general. The miles of golden sand and the ribbon of blue that kissed the sky at the horizon had always calmed me.

“Where do you live?” I asked conversationally.

“Above the shop.” Mateo shot a suspicious glance my way. “Why?”

“So I can throw eggs at your window later. Why else?”

“Ha. Ha.”

I followed him to the kitchen and leaned on the island, sipping beer while Mateo poked his head into my oven and examined the built-in air fryer and the vent above the stove.

“Check out the fridge too. It’s new.”

Mateo opened the Sub-Zero and whistled. “It’s bigger than my first car, and…it’s empty. Don’t you eat?”

I patted my belly with a laugh. “I think it’s obvious I don’t miss many meals.”

His gaze went molten with desire and damn it, I couldn’t breathe for a hot second.

“Quit fishin’ for compliments. You look good, and you know it.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“ Mmm .” Mateo flopped onto the nearest barstool. “You didn’t really think I’d share a family recipe, did you?”

I took another slug from my bottle. “No. But I think we need to call a truce and figure out a way to be civil.”

“And you went with sauce,” Mateo teased, a ghost of a smile lifting his lips at one side. “Wow.”

I picked up one of the bottle caps I’d tossed onto the island earlier and threw it at his head. “You’re an asshole.”

He caught it easily, flashing a wide grin. “Fine. Truce…we’ll talk sauce. But just so you know, that’s like asking for tips on salad dressings. There are too many kinds to list—thousand island, blue cheese, ranch. Same with ‘sauces.’ You can have pesto, alfredo, arrabbiata, Bolognese. Even a basic marinara varies between chefs. We still use my great-grandmother’s recipe at Boardwalk, but if I told you the ingredients, I’d have to murder you.”

I chuckled, charmed by his mischievous expression. Mateo still had that bad-boy vibe he’d cultivated in college, and damn, it was intoxicating.

“Keep your recipes, and I’ll keep mine. However, in the spirit of a truce, I bought tomatoes and spices and pulled up a decent-looking marinara recipe online. I thought maybe you could give me some pointers.”

“How’d we go from a BJ in your office to marinara tips? Your sexy game has taken a nose dive, Vilmer,” he chided without heat. “Try again.”

I snort-laughed. “You’re right. How about a trade?”

“ Hmm , like marinara pointers for a blowjob?”

He was joking, but…also…not.

That familiar telltale crackle of awareness was back. There was absolutely no way to ignore it, so I didn’t bother.

I nodded slowly. “Yeah, something like that.”

Mateo’s gaze fixed on my mouth. He cleared his throat and stepped toward the bowl of tomatoes.

Good. Food was easy.

This…whatever was going on with us—not so much.

“We can’t use these. They’re not sweet or ripe enough. You can substitute quality canned tomatoes. If you do that, we can continue, otherwise you’re outta luck with the sugo .”

“What’s sugo ?” I asked, opening the pantry.

“It’s Italian for juice or…sauce. My grandfather and my dad and uncle called it sugo . Or you say gravy, marinara, or spaghetti sauce or pasta sauce. It’s the simplest thing to make—very few ingredients. Tomatoes, tomato paste, onion, garlic, bay leaf, salt, pepper, red pepper flakes, and a couple of secret spices Cavarettis never share.”

“Understood. Found it.” I held up a twenty-eight-ounce can of whole tomatoes and a smaller can of tomato paste. “This too?”

“Yep. Paste thickens the sauce. It’s not mandatory, but some people like a thinner consistency.”

“What do you like?”

Mateo waggled his brows. “I always go for the thicker option.”

I snorted as I reached for a bottle of Pinot Noir. “Wine?”

“Sure, thanks.”

I poured the wine, humming along to a series of instructions I had no hope of following. I was too distracted by him.

It wasn’t just physical attraction, though. I was fascinated by Mateo’s command of my kitchen. He literally took over, spreading ingredients across the island and barking orders like a…well, a chef. He knew what he was doing. There was no consulting cookbooks or Internet experts. I got the impression that the recipe he was sharing was one he’d memorized as a kid.

“When did you learn how to cook?” I asked, dicing onions on a cutting board while Mateo crushed tomatoes in a bowl.

“I’ve been in a kitchen my whole life.” Mateo rinsed his hands, poured olive oil into the pan on the stove, and turned on the burner. “I have early memories of standing on a stool next to my nonna, chopping basil or stirring marinara. Her kitchen was always busy…lots of family around. My house was quiet and—you’re gonna chop a finger off, Vilmer. Hold the onion like this.”

He gave a brief tutorial, handling the knife the way he used to handle a football. It was tempting to argue that I knew how to chop a damn onion, but I didn’t want to upset our fledgling truce. And every crumb of information Mateo shared made me curious to know more.

I scraped the onions into the pot per his instructions and stirred. “I can’t imagine a quiet house. I have two sisters, Kate and Gwen—one older, one younger. There was always something going on. They shared a room, and I had my own. They’re still bitter about it. They conveniently forget that they constantly hogged the bathroom. I was always late because of them. Evil.”

Mateo shot an unreadable glance at me. “Now we add the garlic, salt, and red pepper flakes. This is a variation…right here with the garlic. We don’t always add garlic. According to my grandparents, garlic and onion compete for flavor and too much garlic overpowers a dish. But that’s a taste thing. Okay, add the tomatoes, a teaspoon of tomato paste, and…a bay leaf. Cover the pot and let it simmer. In twenty minutes, it’ll be ready.”

I furrowed my brow. “Really? That seems too easy.”

He swirled the content of his glass and shrugged. “I told you it’s simple. It may need more salt and pepper, and personally, I like basil and parsley too.”

“Do you use fresh or dried herbs?” I leaned casually against the counter and sipped my wine. And almost did a spit-take at Mateo’s deadpan stare. He didn’t crack a smile until I almost choked around a laugh, wiping tears from the corner of my eyes. “Asshole.”

“So I’ve been told,” he quipped. “You can use either, but I prefer fresh. Too many people buy dried herbs and never check the expiration dates. Then they put fifteen-year-old nutmeg in their gingerbread cookies and wonder why they taste weird.”

“That would be my mom. I helped her clean out her pantry when Dad was in the hospital for gallbladder surgery last summer. She had cans of soup from the last century.”

Mateo widened his eyes comically. “No.”

“Yep. There’s a strong possibility she’s been serving expired soup for years. Kate and Gwen think the fact that we survived meatloaf surprise and Mom’s chicken casserole with potato-chip toppings means we have cast-iron stomachs and are probably immune to most diseases.”

He chuckled as he lifted the lid on the pan to stir the sauce. “Not a great cook, eh?”

“Nope. I love my mom, but if my sisters and I hadn’t learned some basic skills, we’d have starved. And I do mean basic. I was the king of mac and cheese, omelets, and protein drinks in high school. You have no idea how happy I was that my full ride to Great H included a generous meal plan.”

“You had a scholarship?” he asked, replacing the lid.

“ Mmhmm . I wouldn’t have been able to afford a four-year college otherwise. My folks are retired junior high teachers. It wasn’t in the budget. The plan was for me to go to the local community college and transfer after a couple of years on my own dime.”

“But you knew how to play football.”

I inclined my chin. “Yeah. I had a short stint with flag football in elementary school and didn’t play again till freshman year at Spring Creek High. I was a big kid, more chubby than muscular, though. They put me on defense, and it stuck. I wanted to try another position in college, but?—”

“Like what?”

“Quarterback.” I grinned at his faux glower and continued. “Or tight end. Coach wouldn’t hear of it. He needed me to be a beast…so I was. No complaints here. Football has given me opportunities beyond my wildest dreams. The memorabilia in the shop is meant to be an acknowledgment of that, in case you’re curious. I love this town. It’s been good to me.”

“I know I’m gonna sound like a dick, but if I’m hearing correctly, you just admitted to gunning for my job in college, having a limited skill set in the kitchen, and to moving back to town for a victory lap. Which means…I was right about you.”

There was no malice in his tone. It was a straightforward assessment…very on brand for a man who didn’t mince words.

“You’re right about sounding like a dick. The rest…no. I don’t have your culinary lineage of amazing cooks from the mother land, but my grandfather owned a bagel shop. After he passed away, my aunt and uncle ran the business for a decade or so, but they’re older now and not interested in the long hours, and there was no one else to pick up the torch. Including me. I could have moved home, but—” I stopped abruptly, surprised at how much personal info I’d shared. Had to be the wine. I gestured to the stove. “How much longer till it’s ready?”

“Ten minutes.”

“ Mm , it already smells great. I’ll boil some water for pasta.” I could feel Mateo’s watchful gaze as I filled a pot and set it on the burner next to the simmering sauce.

“Why didn’t you want to go home?” he asked softly. “You’re obviously close to your family. Your eyes crinkle when you talk about them…like you miss them.”

“I do.” I topped off our wineglasses to give my hands something to do. “Not all my memories were great, though. And maybe it’s silly, but my least favorite thing about visiting home is running into shitheads who bullied me mercilessly in grade school and having to act like that crap didn’t leave scars while I sign jerseys for their kids. My mom likes to say it’s karma doing her work and that I should enjoy it, but…”

“You don’t,” he finished.

“No. I don’t want to think about being scared all the fucking time and the daily mental ambush. I was too fat, too ugly, too stupid, my clothes weren’t trendy, my backpack was a hand-me-down. I never fit in until I picked up a football. Even then, I was too soft—at first anyway.”

“I’m sorry. Bullies suck.” Mateo frowned, gnawing on his bottom lip.

“Yeah, I probably shouldn’t be holding grudges on behalf of my younger self, but preteen me was a sensitive kid. Imagine my horror when I realized some of the things they said about me were true. Maybe everything. I was chubby, ugly, uncool, and…gay. That last one was a mind fuck. The kids in my town used ‘gay’ to describe anything unsavory—tacky shoes, a bad movie, a song they didn’t like. I didn’t want to be gay.” I let out a humorless laugh. “It got better in high school because of football. Suddenly, I was valuable. My stats were amazing, coaches loved me, my teammates saw me as an asset, and no one made fun of my shortcomings ’cause they liked what I could do.”

“That’s good.”

“Sure, but I was still gay…very gay. So you might say the accolades were tinged with the kind of fear that eats at your insides. If I wasn’t on a football field, I was a wreck, constantly worrying that someone was gonna figure me out.”

“Sorry. I know how that feels.”

I nodded. Yeah, I bet he did.

“It was a bad time, but plenty of kids have it tough in high school.” I shrugged ruefully. “College was my reset, and this town gave me what I needed to start over—self-respect, confidence, acceptance. No one here gives a shit if you’re gay, bi, trans, pan, or whatever.”

“Yet you’re still technically in the closet.” Mateo raised a hand. “Not that I’m judging. Hey, I didn’t come out to my mom or my aunt till my dad died. My cousins knew, but Dad…nope, couldn’t do it.”

“Oh. Was he…”

“A bigot? Sort of. He tried to be open-minded, but he was from a strict Catholic Italian family. He had old-fashioned ideas and I was his only son, only kid…” Mateo waved dismissively. “It wouldn’t have ended well, but that’s old news. I’d rather talk about you brown-nosing the whole fucking town with bagels.”

I snort-laughed. “You’re an asshole, Cavaretti.”

“But you knew that,” he singsonged, a cocky grin tilting one corner of his mouth.

I hid my smile as I opened the bag of spaghetti. I plucked the lid off the pot of boiling water and lowered the heat, then took a handful of dried noodles and broke them in half. A choked gasp interrupted me. I spun toward a wide-eyed, apoplectic Mateo.

“What’s wrong?”

He grabbed the noodles from me, his mouth open in shock and dismay. “What do you mean, ‘what’s wrong’? You’re murdering spaghetti! You don’t break them in half. Stop. This is…sacrilege!”

I widened my eyes, wisely stepping aside as Mateo dumped the rest of the noodles into the pot, muttering in Italian. “They’re going to the same place and let’s face it, it’s easier to eat shorter pieces of spaghetti.”

Mateo’s deadpan stare was on point. “There is so much wrong with that sentence that I don’t know where to begin.”

I snickered. “Oh, come on.”

“Come on? Pasta is shaped as it’s supposed to be eaten. Breaking it like a heathen is disrespectful. You’re lucky my mom and my aunt didn’t see that.”

I raised my hands in surrender. “Lesson learned.”

“Hmph.” Mateo stirred the sauce, adding a smidge of salt.

“You speak Italian.”

He set the spoon down, checking his watch as he turned to face me. “Yeah. My mom was born there. Her family moved to California when she was thirteen, so she grew up speaking both and made sure I did too. Funny thing…my dad’s Italian was terrible.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, he tried but it was painful sometimes. And none of my cousins learned. After so many generations here, some things get lost and the definition of home changes. Let’s test these poor broken noodles.” Mateo declared them perfect and assembled two heaping bowls of spaghetti.

And damn, it was delicious.

We sat at the island and steered conversation toward neutral topics—the new mural at the lifeguard headquarters, rainfall this season, and my thwarted attempts at surfing.

“I spend more time getting tossed in waves than I do standing on the board,” I griped, twirling spaghetti around my fork. “It’s painful, but I swore I’d finally learn how to surf after I retired, and I’m not giving up.”

“It’s all about balance,” Mateo said matter-of-factly.

“You surf?”

“Yeah. I’ll come out with you sometime. Give you some pointers.”

I snorted. “Yeah, I bet you will. I’d rather not end up as shark chum.”

Mateo set a hand on his heart as if wounded. “I thought this was a truce. If so, you’re gonna have to trust me…just a little.”

He was right. And like it or not, I was more interested in him than ever. His strong family bonds, his culinary prowess, and…he could surf too? Yep, very interested.

“Okay.”

Mateo grinned. “Okay.”

We made plans to surf that weekend, and later, I blew him in the kitchen, slipping a digit in his hole till he came. Call it a thank-you for the meal or call it what it really was…lust.

Pure and simple lust. With a little curiosity and yes…admiration thrown into the mix. Mateo fascinated and confounded me in equal measure. Sure, there was a bagel and pizza war to win, but at the moment, I was more interested in winning him over.