Chapter 37 Cooking and Kisses
ARYA’S POV
I stared at the disaster zone that had once been a pristine Italian kitchen and groaned in frustration.
Chocolate was everywhere. Somehow, and I honestly wasn't sure how, I’d managed to get it on the countertops, the stovetop, the cabinet doors, and even a few spots on the ceiling.
The marshmallows I’d been attempting to make had turned into a gooey mess that refused to cooperate, clinging to the spoon like cement.
"This is ridiculous," I muttered, digging through drawers in search of something that might help salvage my midnight snack attempt. "How hard can it be to make chocolate marshmallows? People do this all the time. Children do this."
I’d woken up hungry an hour ago, my stomach growling loud enough to echo through the quiet villa.
After exploring the kitchen and finding it stocked with enough ingredients to feed an army, I’d decided to try making something comforting.
The marshmallows were supposed to be easy. But the internet had lied.
I was elbow-deep in a drawer, searching for a spatula that wasn't coated in chocolate, when I heard the front door opening.
Giovanni was back.
I froze, suddenly hyper-aware of the state of the kitchen and the fact I she was wearing pajama shorts and an oversized t-shirt with my hair piled on top of my head in a messy bun.
The footsteps grew closer.
I straightened up just as Giovanni appeared in the doorway, his guards trailing behind him carrying several shopping bags.
He stopped dead, his eyes traveling slowly across the chocolate-splattered kitchen, then landed on me.
For a long moment, no one spoke.
Then Giovanni's eyebrow arched. "What happened here?"
"I got hungry," I said defensively, crossing my arms over my chest. "You left me here for hours with no food. What was I supposed to do?"
He cocked his head. "So you decided to destroy my kitchen?"
"I didn't destroy it. I just... made a small mess while attempting to make chocolate marshmallows." I gestured at the pot on the stove, which was currently emitting a slightly burnt smell. "It's harder than it looks."
Giovanni moved into the kitchen, and picked up the wooden spoon I’d abandoned, examining the sticky residue with the kind of focus most people reserved for crime scene evidence.
"This," he said slowly, "is not how you make marshmallows."
"Well, obviously," I snapped. "If I knew how to make them properly, they'd be done by now and I wouldn't be standing here covered in chocolate while you judge me."
Something flickered across his face theb je set down the spoon and turned to his guards.
"Put the bags on the counter," he instructed. "Then you're dismissed for the night."
The guards obeyed quickly, depositing what appeared to be groceries before disappearing away from the kitchen.
"What are you doing?" I asked as he began unpacking the bags with revealing fresh tomatoes, basil, garlic, pasta, and expensive-looking olive oil.
"I'm going to cook," he said simply
.
I blinked. "You cook?"
"I do many things, dolcezza." He was already moving to the sink, washing his hands. "Including making real food instead of-" he gestured dismissively at my marshmallow disaster, "-whatever this was supposed to be."
"Hey!" I protested. "I was making comfort food. There's nothing wrong with-"
I didn't get to finish. Giovanni had picked up my pot of failed marshmallows and was dumping the entire contents into the trash.
"No!" I lunged forward. "I spent an hour on that!"
"An hour wasted," he said, rinsing the pot. "I'm making you real food.”
His tone was so matter-of-fact, that I found myself speechless. He was doing it again, taking control, and making decisions without consulting me.
But this time, instead of anger, I felt something else. Curiosity, maybe.
Giovanni had removed his jacket and was rolling up his sleeves, revealing those strong forearms that had haunted my dream on the plane.
He moved around the kitchen, pulling out pans and knives with ease.
"Are you just going to stand there?" he asked without looking at me. "Or are you going to help?"
"I… help?" i moved closer cautiously. "What do you want me to do?"
"Start by not touching anything expensive," he said dryly. "Maybe wash those tomatoes."
I grabbed the tomatoes, determined to prove I wasn't completely useless in the kitchen. But as I carried them to the sink, my elbow caught the edge of a glass measuring cup, sending it clattering across the counter.
Giovanni's hand shot out, catching it before it could fall to the floor.
"Careful," he said, his voice closer than I’d expected. He'd moved beside me without me noticing.
"Sorry," I muttered, embarrassed. "I'm not usually this clumsy."
"No?" His tone was amused. "Could have fooled me.”
I shot him a glare, but he was already back at the stove, heating oil in a pan.
I washed the tomatoes in silence, watching him from the corner of my eye. The smell began to fill the kitchen as he chopped garlic and onions while the pasta boiled on the stove.
"My mother taught me," he said suddenly, not looking up from his work. "She insisted every De Santis man should know how to make proper pasta.”
It was the most personal thing he'd ever shared with me. I didn't know what to say, so I stayed quiet, just watching.
He added the tomatoes next, crushing them by hand into the pan then moved on to the basil and thyme leaves.
"Can I help?" I asked after a few minutes of feeling useless.
"Stir this." He handed me a wooden spoon, guiding my hand to the pan. "Gently. Don't let it burn."
I stirred carefully, aware of his presence beside me. He was so close I could smell his cologne mixed with the garlic and tomatoes.
"Like this?" I asked.
"More gently. You're attacking it." His hand covered mine on the spoon, slowing my motion. "Like this. Let it develop."
My breath caught. His hand was warm and strong, completely engulfing mine.
For a moment we stood like that, stirring together, and I found myself wondering what it would be like if we were actually a normal married couple,
The thought was dangerous so I pushed it away.
Giovanni released my hand and moved to check the pasta. He tested a piece, nodded in satisfaction, and began draining it.
"You're very good at this," I said. "The cooking thing. It's... unexpected."
"Why? Because I'm a monster?" His tone was light, but there was an edge to it.
"I didn't say that."
"You didn't have to." He drizzled olive oil over the pasta, added a sprinkle of parmesan. "Come here."
I moved closer. He twirled some pasta onto a fork and held it up.
"Taste."
I hesitated, then opened her mouth. The fork slid between my lips, and flavor exploded across my tongue. It was possibly the best pasta I’d ever tasted.
"Oh my God," she breathed after swallowing. "That's incredible."
Giovanni's eyes had darkened, fixed on my mouth. "You have-" He reached out, his thumb brushing the corner of my lips. "Sauce."
His thumb lingered there, and I felt my pulse jump but I didn't move and neither did he.
Giovanni's hand moved from my mouth to cup my jaw, his touch warm against my skin. I couldn't breathe. My heart was hammering so hard I was sure he could hear it.
He leaned in slowly, giving me time to pull away but my body wouldn't cooperate with my brain's screaming warnings.
I stayed frozen, my lips parting slightly and my eyes fluttering closed… then the doorbell rang.
We jumped apart like teenagers caught by their parents. Giovanni's hand dropped from my face, and he stepped back, his expression closing off immediately.
"Stay here," he said, his voice rough.
Then he was moving toward the front door, leaving me alone in the kitchen with a racing heart, and the terrifying realization that I was about to kiss Giovanni De Santis.
And worse… I wanted to.