Page 149 of Delicious

“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 thesugo.”

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

“It’s Italian for juice or…sauce. My grandfather and my dad and uncle called itsugo. 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 mynonna,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.”

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