Page 59 of Tender Offer
Preston lifts my chin with a gentle finger. “Hi.”
“Hi.”Breathe. I collect my nerves and smile at the spread on the counter. “This looks incredible.”
“It does.” My eyes flutter at his focus on my profile and not the food.
I have self-control.
“Did you make all of this tonight?” I move to the other end of the island and stifle a giggle at the tiled lemon pattern that paints his chest. “Nice apron.”
He looks down and shrugs. “It went with my shirt. Nonna packed a few in my bag when I saw her at Christmas. Wine?” He points to a bottle of red.
“Yes, please.”
Uncorking a bottle shouldn’t be sexy, but that’s Preston. He maneuvers the metal corkscrew with ease and flexes those damn forearm muscles with those damn lickable veins. “I made the ricotta for the cassatelle yesterday. Everything else I squeezed in between the meetings I took from home.”
“Remind me to kiss your grandmother,” I say with eyes the size of my appetite.
“You can kiss me.” His chuckle wafts in a trail of musk and spices as he makes his way to the cabinets. He grabs two plates, sets them on the marble counter, and sits beside me. The lights dim against the night sky from the large windows in the living room.
We say a quick prayer over the food and dig in.
Preston’s mouth quirks at my moan that wraps around another bite. “Food is okay?”
“Amazing,” I say to the golden crust of the eggplant Parmesan. “I had this in Florence a few years ago. It wasn’t like this.”
“Sicilian food has a different flavor palate. It reflects the region.”
“I love it all. Do you normally cook like this?”
He shakes his head. “Most days I don’t get home until late, but I try to cook on Sundays.”
“What’s so special about Sunday?”
An adorable smile provokes his dimples. “I call my nonna.”
The answer shouldn’t make me blush. Lots of people are close to their grandparents, but there’s something about a man who adores his grandma the way he does.
“You’re a good grandson.”
His grin widens. “I try to be. Nonna is my heart. She doesn’t like the hassle of video calls, so I don’t see her every week. But we cook together if I’m not traveling.”
As Preston explains, Lionara Parisi is a firecracker with a big heart and a tea towel she weaponizes when necessary. At seventy-eight, she’s still active, even has a boyfriend he met over Christmas. He cringes bringing it up, but good for her enjoying her golden years to the fullest. From the photo on his phone, taken the last time they were together, she’s a knockout. Rich mahogany skin wrapped in the second coming of EarthaKitt. Preston absorbed many of her features, and his late grandfather’s as well.
“Anyway.” He shakes his head. “There are good Italian places nearby, but nothing beats homemade.”
“Tell me about it,” I say with a sigh. “Everybody and their mama has an étouffée.”
“Mmm. I had shrimp étouffée in New Orleans last time I was there.”
“You need to get out of the city and come over to Breaux Bridge. Mawmaw made the best crawfish étouffée and smothered okra,” I say proudly.
“Oh yeah?”
“Chooo! The best, baby.” I fork a piece of fish. “What?”
“Your accent. I like it,baybee,” he mocks.
“I barely hear it anymore. Haven’t lived at home since high school.”
