Page 73 of Desperate Crimes
And then?
He cooks.
Like really cooks.
Whipping eggs like a pro, flipping pancakes with casual perfection, moving around the sleek black kitchen like it’s his second skin.
The smell is heaven—butter, cinnamon, maple—and my mouth waters before the first plate even hits the counter.
“My parents both cook,” he says as he slides a stack of pancakes onto a plate. “They taught me. And Mrs. Pirillo, our housekeeper before she retired? She was, well, she babysat me, so she could be terrifying, but her cheese blintzes could stop wars.”
He grins, almost shy. It makes him look younger.
Reachable.
I laugh, a real one, and chime in.
“Dad can’t cook to save his life. He once tried to make scrambled eggs and lit a kitchen towel on fire. But Mommy? She’s got these old handwritten recipe cards from my Nonna. The kind stained with butter and flour and mystery. Growing up, we all learned them.”
His eyes soften. “I like that. I like hearing you talk about home.”
“Well, it’s not like you don’t know them,” I reply shyly.
“I know. But I like hearing it from your perspective, Princess.”
“You do?”
“I do,” he says, and my heart squeezes so tight inside my chest, I’m surprised I don’t pass out.
I mean, just like that, we’re talking.
We’re eating pancakes and eggs at a marble counter in a house I didn’t know existed twenty-four hours ago, chatting like this is the lazy morning after a long, perfect date.
We eat some more.
Nico feeds me from his fork, and I have to work not to fall off my chair.
I mean, can you say swoon?
We talk.
He’s funny. Brilliant. And he listens. Really listens. To me.
We do the dishes together.
I dry. He washes.
Our elbows bump.
He throws a sudsy sponge at me.
I flick water in his face.
He catches my wrist and kisses my knuckles like I’m a duchess in some old black-and-white film.
And it’s not forced or playacting.
It’s normal.
