Page 160 of Ruin Me Gently

“Dinner?” I echoed, brows lifting. “For how manypeople?”

“Thought you might want options,” he shrugged, setting the bags down at the end of the bed.

“Options?” I gave him a pointed look. “This is enough to feed an entire football team. Are you planning on inviting people round, or…?”

His grin only widened, but he didn’t answer. Instead, he turned and strode back out of the room, leaving me staring at the mountain of takeout bags. I had to give it to him, it smelled delicious, and my mouth was already watering.

A moment later, he returned with two plates balanced in one hand, a set of utensils in the other, and two glasses of water tucked between his arm and chest. He passed me one of the glasses, and sat down next to me, legs crossed on the bed as he started unpacking one container at a time.

“Arancini,” he announced, lifting the lid dramatically. “Golden, crispy, cheesy—because I have standards.”

“Bold start,” I snorted as he grabbed another bag, revealing another container.

“That one looks fancy. What is it?”

“Osso buco. Braised veal shank. The risotto’s saffron.”

I blinked. “Did you just casually say ‘veal shank’ like that’s a normal thing to order as takeout?”

“It’s normal if you have taste,” he said, pulling out the next thing.

“Okay, this one actually looks familiar. Fancy meatballs?”

He shot me a look. “Polpette. But sure. Let’s go with ‘fancy meatballs.’”

I grinned as he dug into another bag. “Alright. What am I looking at now?”

“Panzerotti.” He pried one open with his fingers, revealing gooey, molten cheese and tomato. “Basically a deep-fried calzone.”

Next came three loaves of bread, olives, cheeses, and because apparently excess was the theme of the night, a whole damn bucket of fries.

“Ooh—watch this.” He grabbed a small remote from the nightstand, pointing it toward the opposite side of the room. A soft whirring sound filled the space, and a white screen slowly lowered from the ceiling, covering the front of the bookshelves. He clicked another button, and a projector hummed to life, glowing softly as it booted up.

My mouth parted slightly.

He turned back to me, beaming. “What do you want to watch?”

I glanced from the massive screen, to him, to the literal mountain of food between us. I had no words. So I just shook my head. “Dealer’s choice.”

His grin widened, and he didn’t hesitate, clicking through the menu before settling on some nature documentary. The next thing I knew, he was shifting up onto the bed, settling back against the headboard, then patting the space between his legs. “Come on.”

“Uh, what?”

He didn’t say anything—just reached out, gently catching an unmarked patch of my skin, giving it a light tug. I reluctantly moved, settling between his legs with my back to his chest. He slid his arms around me, pulling me against him. And then—a kiss. Soft, slow, just a brush of lips against my neck that sent a shiver down my spine.

He reached forward with one arm, plucking an arancini from the open container. “Here,” he said, holding it up in front of me.

“What are you doing?”

“Feeding you,” he said simply.

“I can feed myself.”

“I know.”

I rolled my eyes, but leaned forward slightly, taking a bite. Warm gooey cheese and rice melted on my tongue in a way that made my stomach rumble again. Good God, it was delicious.

Between his own bites, he’d reach forward, grabbing something and holding it out for me. A forkful of osso buco. A piece of panzerotti, the cheese stretching as he tore it. A fry, dragged through aioli.

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