Page 52 of Rules Of Engagement: St. Louis
“I did. A man could use a place where his phone doesn’t ring.”
She laughed, and it was the first one I’d heard since we boarded the plane. “And here I thought you just enjoyed torturing yourself with international contract law.”
“That’s just a hobby.”
Inside the villa, stone floors spread throughout the entrance. There was exposed beams overhead, and rustic yet expensive furniture throughout. Naomi moved through the space as if memorizing it, running her fingers along the massive wooden dining table.
“This feels lived in,” she said. “Like it has stories.”
“Giuseppe, the man who sold it to me, said his family made wine here for six generations. He still comes by to check on the vines.”
“You kept the vineyard?”
“I kept everything. Giuseppe manages it, and I pretend to understand what he’s talking about when he explains why this year’s harvest will be exceptional.”
I opened a bottle of Brunello and poured two glasses while she explored. When she returned to the kitchen, she’d kicked off her heels somewhere along the way. The sight of her bare feet on my floors filled me with comfort.
“What’s for dinner?” she asked, settling onto a barstool.
“Wild boar ragu. Giuseppe’s wife, Elena, taught me the recipe after she spent an afternoon yelling at me in Italian.”
“She yelled at you?”
“Italian grandmothers don’t mess around. Elena tasted my first attempt and told me I was disgracing her ancestors.”
Naomi nearly choked on her wine. “She did not.”
“Six hours later, I could make ragu that didn’t embarrass the entire region of Tuscany.”
“I don’t believe that for a second. I’ve tasted your food.”
“American food. Unfortunately, I needed to sharpen my Italian cooking skills but never fear, you’re about to taste test what I’ve been able to accomplish since then, in an hour or so. You game?”
“I am.”
Her smile animated my nerves like a live wire.
“Chef Boyar-Valentine, at your service.”
She giggled and I wiggled my brows.
The kitchen came alive as I moved through the routine. I used fresh pasta from the market in Montalcino, vegetables from the villa’s own garden, and olive oil pressed from trees we could see through the windows. Naomi watched me work, asking questions about the house and the surrounding area.
“Giuseppe’s daughter lives in the village,” I explained as I stirred the sauce. “She still brings me tomatoes from her garden and lectures me about not visiting enough.”
“How very Italian of her.”
“How very right of her.”
We ate at the kitchen island with candles flickering between us and the sounds of the Tuscan night drifting through openwindows. Sitting there with Naomi felt like the most natural thing in the world.
“This is amazing,” Naomi said, twirling pasta around her fork. “You’re the only man who’s ever cooked for me.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, really cooked. Not ordered takeout or had something catered. Actually stood in a kitchen and made something from scratch.”
“None of your exes cooked for you?”
