Page 51 of A Good Girl's Guide to Dominance
“Grazie,” he says.
I tilt my head. “Okay, if you're going to start speaking Italian, I don't know how you ever expect us to get to dinner.”
The smile on his face doesn't waver a bit and it makes my stomach somersault.
“I’ll try to keep it under control,” he says. “Follow me. I'm still trying to work some magic in the kitchen and don't want to burn it.”
As Rome begins to walk, I follow closely on his heel. “You're cooking? I thought you were going to order in. Actually, I thought you were going to have a chef make dinner. You know how to cook?”
We walk past an open living room that is magnificently designed, making my jaw drop. A gargantuan eggshell sectional takes up the center, with black and eggshell pillows neatly placed on each cushion, while a gray coffee table with a gun metal top rests in the center. Silver end tables with glass tops are strategically placed around the ends of the sectional andmatching loveseat, and the entire space is punctuated by the fireplace made of the exact same black, white, and gray brick from the outside of the house. The gorgeous black chandelier hanging from the center adds the finishing touch to a jaw-dropping space that leaves me stuck in my tracks while Rome rushes into the kitchen.
“I'm Italian,” he says. “Of course I know how to cook. My mother wouldn't have let me live to see adulthood if I didn't.”
I somehow manage to peel my eyes away from the living room and make my way into the kitchen, only to be blown away a second time. Black cabinets next to white marble countertops and mirrored black appliances nearly overwhelm my senses with their beauty, and even though Rome is clearly cooking, the place is as neat as a hospital room. There are no spilled ingredients on the counter or splashes of mystery liquids on the floor. The only signs that he's cooking are the steam rising from pots and a skillet on the stove, and the hunger-inducing aroma spreading throughout the house. I have been in his place all of five seconds and I am in awe of how this man lives. It’s almost too good to be true. I've never known a man to be this well put together.
“Rome, your house … it’s surreal,” I compliment, still eyeing everything and taking it all in.
“Thank you, I'm glad you like it,” he replies. “I just moved in a few months ago so I'm still getting used to it, like a lot of things in my life. But I do love it.”
“I bet. Was your last place as nice as this one?” I ask, taking a seat on one of the tall chairs by the island.
“Oh, no way,” he says, turning his back to me so he can do something on the stove. “I mean, don't get me wrong, I've never been poor, but my place was average middle class. My circumstances changed when my father passed away.”
Damn. I almost forgot that he said he recently lost his father. He told me at the restaurant but clearly didn't want to elaborate. I wonder if I’ll be able to get more out of him tonight.
“I remember you told me about your father,” I say, trying to tread lightly. “Were you two close?”
Rome doesn't speak or turn around for five long seconds before he answers, “Yes.”
“I'm really sorry to hear that, Rome,” I say, hoping my sincerity can be heard through my words.
“How about you? Both of your parents still with us?” he asks, looking over his shoulder.
“Fortunately they are,” I reply. “And my mom is just like yours. There was no way I was leaving her house without knowing how to get down in the kitchen. We still cook together whenever I go see them. Does your mom still teach you things to cook? I call and ask my mom for directions and ingredients all the time.”
Rome stirs a pot before tapping the spoon on the side and setting it down on a napkin next to the stove. When he turns around, his face is blank. “My mom died in a car accident when I was nineteen.”
“Oh my god,” I blurt out before I can stop myself. No wonder he has such a hard exterior—only thirty-five years old and he has already lost both of his parents. “I'm so sorry. That’s horrible. I can’t imagine how hard that must be for you.”
He licks his lips as he stares at the floor. “Yeah. I certainly have my moments, but … I manage.”
After another few seconds of awkward silence, Rome adds, “Now I have a head full of memories that sometimes make me cry, but more often than not, make me smile and laugh. There is a lot that I wish both of them could've seen, but I know they’re still with me in one way or another. I like to think that Mom is here whenever I cook, making sure I don't burn anything.Even now she's looking over my shoulder every time I touch this ravioli.”
A soft smile forms on my lips as Rome turns back around to continue cooking. Somehow, I can imagine him and his mother standing over a stove together, laughing as he torches something for the first time, leaving it charred and filling his mother with fits of laughter. It’s nice learning something deeply personal to him. It makes him more tangible and human instead of some mysterious, mystic creature that feels like he hopped off the pages of a BDSM romance written by Nasir Booker.
“That’s a great way of thinking of it,” I say with a smile that he can't see while he cooks. “So, you're making ravioli. Have you mastered the recipe yet or do you have a little book with notes scribbled all over it?”
“I'm making ravioli with Italian sausage ragout,” he corrects. “And I absolutely have this down pat. What I love about this recipe from my mom is that it doesn't require a whole lot of effort, but it tastes and looks like it could be a gourmet dish.”
“Oh, yeah? Well let me see what you're working with over there.”
I get up from my seat and approach Rome from the back, but he holds out a hand to stop me.
“No, no. You stay back there,” he jokes. “You can't look at the ingredients while they are separate. It ruins the flavor.”
“It ruins theflavor?” I ask, giggling. “How does seeing it ruin the flavor?”
“I don't know but that's what my mother always told me, so that’s what I'm sticking with. You can see it once it all comes together. Now stay back. I’m just about done anyway.”
