Page 24 of Flawed

Romantic Italian music hums from my radio. The lights are off. Steam drifts out of the pot on the stove. Garlic and butter sizzle in a skillet. Candles flicker in the small room, making Luca's body gleam. He's still in his towel, chopping up herbs and singing the lyrics.

Is this guy for real?

He doesn't move his head, only his eyes, pinning them on me. His lips curve as he states, "Thought I told you to stay in bed where it's warm."

My heart swells. I wish it didn't. More than anything, I wish I had the willpower to dislike Luca, but I don't. He's everything I could have asked for before I even knew what I wanted in a man. Yet we cannot be.

My stomach growls again, and he chuckles, answering for me, "Guess you're too hungry. Sit down, stellina." He motions to the chair.

I avoid the table. Instead, I sit on a barstool, mesmerized by his chef skills. He slices basil like he's a Michelin star recipient. I ask, "Where did you learn to chop like that?"

A soft expression enters his features, almost as if he's reminiscing about good old times. He answers, "My mamma always told my brothers and me, 'if you want to ever have a woman fall in love with you, you must learn to cook.'"

His statement warms my heart. I reply, "She did?"

He puts the knife down, scoops up the green herb, and tosses it on a plate. He pours a glass of red wine and sets it in front of me. "She did. Try this. I brought it from my private collection for when you were feeling better."

My heart swoons again. No one has ever thought about me enough to bring me a bottle of wine. Maybe I'm overreacting, but it strikes me as super thoughtful. Yet, I debate, not sure if I should drink it or not. The doctor said a glass of red wine every now and then was okay, but is it?

"You don't like wine?" Luca asks.

I shake my head, creating the lie as I speak, "No. I do. I'm just not sure I should have it when I've been sick."

His eyes widen. "Forgive me, stellina. Of course. Leave it."

"I'll have a sip," I say, not wanting to let it go to waste and taking a mouthful before Luca can retract his offer.

"Whoa! What are you doing?" he questions.

I arch my eyebrows. "What's wrong?"

He chuckles and comes around the island. He sits next to me and takes the glass from me. He puts it on the counter and then positions my hand so my two fingers are between the stem and my palm rests on the bottom. He holds his hand on top of mine and leans close to my face. "This is a thirty-year-old bottle of Barolo. You can't just toss it back."

Amused, I retort, "Toss it back? I didn't exactly chug it."

"Ah, but you didn't let it breathe. Nor did you smell it. You didn't swirl the flavors together," he points out.

I tilt my head, feeling slightly foolish, and blurt out, "I always thought that was a gimmick."

He gasps. "My stellina! I thought you were French."

"I am!"

He puts his face directly in front of mine. "Are you sure about that?"

My face heats. "Of course. I'm—"

He gives me a chaste kiss. I freeze, and he moves my hand so the wine swirls in the goblet. He picks it up, holds it under my nose, and orders, "Slowly inhale and tell me what you smell."

I obey, taking in the rich aromas. I state, "Black fig, rhubarb, and red currant?"

Approval lights up Luca's face. He says, "Very good. Now taste."

I take another mouthful, and the flavors pop out on my tongue, richer than before. I moan, "Mmm."

Luca tucks a lock of my hair behind my ear, grinning. "Good, right?"

"Yes."

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