Page 54 of King of Pain

“Perfect,” I say, grabbing my keys. “Be right back. Don’t start without me.”

He glances at me curiously but doesn’t ask where I’m going.

I head to the store and pick up a set of wine glasses. All I have in the cupboards are plastic tumblers, and who drinks good wine out of a tumbler? After that, I stop by a boutique bakery I love nearby and grab a cheesecake.

How do you land a shy, skittish Italian? Turn the dinner he’s making into a low-key date, and hope for the best.

When I get back, the apartment smells even better. I head into the kitchen expecting to find Ant in there. When he’s not, I call out for him. The door to the bathroom creaks open, and I look up, expecting to see him in his usual hoodie and sweatpants.

Instead, he’s walking down the hall in nothing but a towel around his waist while he dries his face with another.

Holy fucking fuck.

I freeze, a bag nearly slipping from my hand as my eyes take it all in.

Ant doesn’t notice me at first. He’s rubbing the second towel over his wet hair, his shoulders and chest gleaming from the shower.

Jesus.

I’ve known Ant was ripped from the moment I laid eyes on him, but seeing him like this—bare skin, defined muscles, a body that looks like it was carved out of marble—my brain goes offline.

And then my eyes drift lower.

The towel is slung low on his hips, and it’s impossible not to notice the massive bulge swinging under the thin fabric as he moves.

Oh. My. Fucking. God.

I swallow, my mouth suddenly dry.

If that’s soft, what does that monster look like hard?

Ant finally notices me, his gaze following mine, and his face flushes an even deeper shade of red than the heat from the shower had tinged his bronzed skin.

I nervously hold up the bags, then practically shout, “I brought a cake.”

Ant smirks at me, clearly enjoying the role-reversal.

‘I brought a cake?’… Seriously, Sullivan?

I take a breath, recovering. “Uh, you got that nice bottle of wine, and I didn’t have any proper glasses. A good wine deserves wine glasses.” Then, holding up the cheesecake, I clarify, “And I picked up a New York cheesecake.”

Ant looks at me, surprised, before breaking into a smile. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“You’re making me the first home cooked meal I’ve had since I left Boston,” I say, setting the glasses on the counter. “The least I can do is provide dessert.”

Relieved the moment has passed, I head into the living room to play with Little G before dinner. I hope I didn’t make him uncomfortable, but I would think he’s used to being in a towel in the locker room. I’m overthinking it. But damn, what a view.

When we finally sit down to eat, the lasagna looks like something you see on one of those shows on FoodTV: beautifully layered and bubbling. The outer pieces have that perfect, almost-burnt cheese crust at the edges. Those edges are the best after it cools. I’ll be hitting that in the middle of the night for sure.

The first bite is pure heaven.

“Holy shit,” I say, setting my fork down for a moment. “This is incredible, Ant.”

His cheeks flush, and he looks down at his plate. “It’s just lasagna.”

“Don’t downplay it,” I say, taking another bite. “Don’t forget—we have the North End in Boston, with some of the best Italian restaurants in the country. This might be the best I’ve ever had.”

There’s that blush again.