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TWENTY

Ella

BLAKE not only places first in Italy, but he beats his own fastest lap time. I worry the entire race, but how’s he supposed to know that when he’s driving 250 mph on the circuit and I’m watching from the comfort of the pit garage? As far as he knows, I was cool as a cucumber. It looks like we both won.

I know it’s not an official date, even though it sort of may be, but knowing this still doesn’t do much to calm the butterflies having a rave in my stomach. And when he opens the door to his car for me and tells me I look beautiful, the butterflies decide to snort cocaine or something because they are losing their fucking minds.

I spend the drive with my face pressed up against the window, taking in the rolling hills dotted with cypress trees and vineyards. Thirty-five minutes later, we pull up in front of a rustic villa. It’s exactly the type of home you imagine in the Italian countryside—exposed stone walls interrupted by pietra serena frames, a classic terracotta roof, and lush gardens over-looking a never-ending sea of towering trees.

Blake seems pleased by my reaction. “Pretty, right?”

Pretty is the absolute bare minimum of how I’d describe this place. I step out of the car and slowly turn, taking in my surroundings. “Who lives here?”

“You know Rossi? The pasta?”

I manage a brief nod. Everyone knows Rossi Pasta. It lines the shelves at every grocery store boasting its claim of being the number one Italian pasta and ready-to-eat sauce brand. As much as I’d love to say I handmake my pasta, let’s be real; waiting for the water to boil takes enough time as it is. I’ve been using Rossi spaghetti for as long as I can remember.

“Their grandson lives here,” he says casually.

“Okay.” I’m still confused, which Blake seems to be thoroughly enjoying. “And we’re doing what here?”

“We’re having dinner.” Everything about his voice says duh .

“But I thought you were cooking.”

“I am.” He grins in not-so-secret triumph. “I’m just getting a little help.”

Cool, cool, cool. So, apparently, the heir of Rossi pasta is helping him cook me dinner. That’s completely unexpected, but somehow very on-brand for Blake.

As if on cue, a man in his mid-thirties comes out the door with arms wide open. His longish black hair is slicked back, he sports a neatly trimmed beard and mustache, and his olive-colored skin is sun-kissed. Everything about him screams that he enjoys the finer things in life, as would I if I had enough money to live in an Italian castle.

“Blake! Benvenuto !”

The man pulls him into a hug, placing exaggerated kisses on both of his cheeks. The two of them start talking in rapid-fire Italian. Yep. Blake’s bilingual. Technically, he’s trilingual since he speaks French, too. What can’t he fucking do? And why does everything have to make me like him more?

Italian Stallion finally turns to me. “You must be Ella. It’s a pleasure.” He grabs me by the shoulders and pulls me in, smacking two kisses on my cheeks before I can even say hello.

“Nice to meet you,” I say, my cheeks growing pink.

Is it possible to get high off the smell of someone’s cologne?

“It’s a pleasure to have you here. I’m Gabriel.” He turns back toward the house and motions for us to follow. “Come, come.”

“You can stop blushing.” Blake gives me a funny look. “He’s married … to a man named Alejandro.”

I smack him on the arm and walk extra fast so he’s a few paces behind me. Not before I see his satisfied grin, though. Gabriel leads us through his home, talking about its history. It’s the size of a small liberal arts college. Each room we pass through has the perfect blend of modern decor and antique accents. It’s elegant and comfortable. I would bet my savings account that Architectural Digest has featured this home at one point or another.

We finally stop in the kitchen after walking for what feels like ten minutes. Oh. My. God. The massive island in the center of the room is barely visible underneath the mountain of ingredients covering it. Flour, fresh eggs, olive oil, carrots, celery, red onions, tomatoes, garlic, fresh parsley, sage, and rosemary.

Gabriel puts on an adorably cheesy apron that says, “Kiss the Cook.” He tosses Blake an even better one with the naked figure of Michelangelo’s David . I swallow a laugh as Blake pulls it over his head and ties it behind his back.

“Ella, do you want to grab a wine from the cellar?” Gabriel asks. “Whatever red looks best.”

I buy my wine based solely on which label I like the most, but I don’t think that’s what he means. His wine cellar is massive. Rows and rows of every wine imaginable, from Albarinos to Zinfandels. I land on a Chianti Classico because Blake gave me a history lesson in the car all about the Chianti region in Tuscany. Naturally, he knows all of this from some documentary he watched on the Medici family. The wine’s from 2001, so at least I’m not dipping into the twentieth-century wines.

Blake and Gabriel are arguing about the chopping technique of a carrot when I walk back into the kitchen. Imagine two six-foot men, both in novelty aprons, and each holding a knife and waving it around like they’re conducting an orchestra.

“If you guys are going to kill each other, can you do it after we eat and after I’ve left?”

Both men stop talking and stare at me.

“I’m hungry and don’t want to get framed for your murders if you end up stabbing each other,” I admit, pouring three glasses of wine.

Blake places the onion on the table, grandly gesturing for Gabriel to take over and show him the correct technique. Gabriel flashes me a handsome smile. “Your Blake’s a stubborn one. I’m glad he has someone to keep him in line.”

I’ve never taken a sip of wine so quickly. It slides right down my throat without hitting my taste buds. I try not to read into the fact that he just called Blake mine. Not a date, Ella. But then again, he could’ve boiled a pot of Rossi boxed pasta and called it a day. Instead, he drove me to Gabriel Rossi’s home to have him help cook me a full-blown, homemade Italian dinner. How do I not read into that? I’m only human, after all.

The next hour passes quickly, the conversation between the three of us easy. Blake and I both offer to have Gabriel join us for dinner, but he bows out, claiming he has plans in town. So it looks like it’s just Blake and me. It’s fine. I’m fine. Totally not reading too much into this. We’ve eaten plenty of meals together. Is there more wine?

We eat outside on Gabriel’s patio. The view is so beautiful it looks hand-drawn. And the food? Best damn meal of my life. I twirl pasta around my fork. “This is my new death-row meal.”

“You’d change your death-row meal to my cooking? I’m flattered, love.”

Rolling my eyes, I take a bite. Yep. Definitely adding it to the rotation. Blake takes a sip of his wine, swirling it around in the glass afterward. “How’d you even come up with asking people their death-row meal?”

“You know Hinge?”

His brows burrow in confusion and he gives me a blank look. “Like a door hinge?”

“No … like the dating app.” I’m not sure why I even bothered asking. Of course Blake doesn’t know what Hinge is. He’s not looking for a relationship. And if he were, he’d be on Raya, not Hinge, like us mere mortals. “Anyway, they give you prompts to choose from and then you answer them and they appear on your profile.”

“And one of yours was asking people their death-row meal?” He shakes his head back and forth. “It’s no wonder you’re single.”

I narrow my eyes. “Excuse me, but if I remember correctly, you found the question wildly amusing.”

Blake shares a playful wink, leaning his elbows on the table. We end up spending over three hours outside. It still feels too short. Our conversation flows with no awkward lulls or pauses. We’re both eager to fill up every second with a story, a thought, a comment. When pesky bugs finally interrupt our evening, we decide to head inside with our empty plates.

“Isn’t the rule I cook and you clean?” Blake asks innocently.

“According to what rulebook?”

“Kidding.” He chuckles. “Gabriel said not to worry about it. His housekeeper is coming early tomorrow morning.”

Flour hits my face without warning as I finish placing my plate in the sink. It takes me a few seconds to recoup, but I grab a handful myself and blow it so it lands all over Blake’s shirt. Soon enough, we both look like we’ve failed horribly at our mission to sneak a kilo of cocaine over the border and now it’s all over our clothes instead. I admire my handiwork as Blake laughs at the two of us looking like a pair of snowmen.

“You’ve got some flour on your face,” he notes.

His rough fingers trail my cheek, unguarded desire brightening his brown eyes. I throw all caution straight out the fucking window as my mouth meets his. My body reacts before my mind can process what’s actually happening. He cups his hands confidently against my cheeks as he kisses me hard and demandingly.

His tongue meets mine, swirling and dancing around, a shameless moan escaping his mouth. It’s months of pent-up tension demolishing the carefully defined boundaries we just blurred into nothingness. He kisses me as if he were starving for me, the burning intensity of it making heat spread through my body like wildfire. It’s urgent and unrestrained. Blake’s more dominant, leading the kiss, but I do some pushing and pulling of my own. My hands wander through his hair, making their way across the nape of his neck then down his arms. He smells the way he always does—like cedar cologne and expensive leather. I’ve never been kissed like this, with such desperation and desire.

Warm lips kiss down my neck when I finally snap out of the stupefied trance I’m in. I move quickly, stepping away from the counter to put some space between us. It takes a second to find my voice. A million thoughts are running through my head, the most obvious being what the hell just happened.

“Blake,” I breathe out. “What are we doing?”

“Exactly what we should be doing.”

He steps forward to continue where we left off, but I gently push him back. The full impact of his hungry stare is almost enough to let him keep kissing me, but I stand my ground. I need to stop this before it goes too far. The tension in the air is so thick, it may suffocate us both.

“Seriously. What’s going on?”

My hand motions to the scene around us. The straps of my sundress hang off my shoulders and Blake’s shirt is halfway unbuttoned. Our lips are both swollen and red. He looks as mystified as I feel. His normally messy hair is on a new level, sticking out funny. I swallow back the lump in my throat as my eyes fall down to his lips—why do I want to feel them against mine again so desperately?

“We’re obviously attracted to one another. You can’t pretend we don’t have insane chemistry. I’ve been thinking about kissing you again since Spain, so why deny what we both so clearly want?”

He runs his thumb over my bottom lip, pulling it down. Those dumb teddy-bear brown eyes of his are soft and I know what he’s trying to do, but it won’t work. It can’t. I turn my head away, forcing his hand to fall back to his side.

“Because maybe I want more than just that.”

Right as the words leave my mouth, I want to pull them right back in and then swallow them so deep that they never see the light of day. The look on Blake’s face is so painstakingly tormented and panicked that I know his answer without having to hear it. I’ve not only committed the worst sin of all, but I’ve also said it out loud. I knew falling for Blake was a bad idea long before he ever kissed me, but that doesn’t make the rejection any less painful.

“I’ve said since day one I don’t do relationships, Ella.” He rakes his fingers through his hair. I watch as the locks fall back into place almost immediately. “I can’t give you more than this.”

“What? Fuck buddies?”

His voice is tight as he says, “I didn’t say that.”

“Ah, let me rephrase. Friends with benefits, casual, slam piece, another notch in your belt. Should I go on or do any of those work?”

“Jesus, Ella.” He glares at me, eyes dark with frustration. “You know it’s not like that. Not with you.”

He doesn’t get to be pissed; I get to be pissed. Fuck that. Who makes someone a homemade Italian meal with a famous pasta person and doesn’t understand how that’s not leading someone on? I know people who have been proposed to in less romantic ways than this, for God’s sake. This is Kardashian-level shit.

“Then what’s it like, Blake? Please, enlighten me.”

“I don’t know.” He kicks the toe of his shoe into the floor in aggravation. “Forget it.”

The embarrassment and hurt coursing through my body are blinding. Suddenly, the room feels like the walls are closing in. We both stay quiet and the silence is deafening. Not that anything else he could possibly say would make me feel like less of an idiot. There’s no one to blame but myself for the situation I’m in.

“I think we should head back,” I say, my voice painfully awkward.

Blake licks his lips, staring down at me as he registers what I just said. He pulls his brows together tight, narrowing his eyes a bit while he shakes his head. He’s upset. I don’t have the time or energy to worry about how he’s feeling. All I want to do is cry and I refuse to do that in front of him.

The car ride back is excruciating. Only the radio cuts through the tension, the silence stretching out further than the twisting roads ahead of us. I press my knees against the car door, angling my body as far away from Blake as I can. The door can’t open fast enough when we pull up to the hotel.

“I can’t give you what you want, Ella,” Blake says quietly as I get out of the car. “I’m sorry.”

I fight back the tears that threaten to spill onto my cheeks. “What I want is you. You’re just too scared to see that I’m what you want, too.”

I want red roses and clearly all Blake thinks he wants is the Fifty Shades of Grey red room. As much as I’m a hopeless romantic, I’m also a realist and it doesn’t get much more real than this.