“Yum, my favorite.”
“I know.” And this time my kiss lands on her lips. “Do you want to make a salad?”
“Of course.” As she gathers the salad items, I pull out a bowl and chopping board from a nearby drawer, placing them on the counter.
“Who is this man?” she asks with a wide grin. “He looks like Antonio Barbieri but moves like he actually does know how to cook.”
“Okay, truth. I asked Mary to teach me how to make this and a couple of other simple things.”
A smile lights up her face. “Well, the kitchen suits you.”
Side by side, we work on preparing the meal, the same comfortable silence between us just like in Capri. This really can be our everyday life.
My gaze tracks sideways from the simmering sauce on the cooktop to where Luce is slicing tomatoes for a balsamic, tomato, and basil salad. I reduce the heat and turn to face her.
“A glass of wine?”
“Sì, grazie,” she replies, not shifting her focus from the chopping board.
As I pass behind her, I reach around and snag a slice of tomato, then pop it into my mouth. “Hey, you have to wait till I’m done,” she complains, but the smile she aims at me belies her tone.
We move around the kitchen, as in sync as a ballroom dancing pair, Lucia dressing the salad while I place a pot of salted water on the cooktop beside the sauce. Then go to fix our drinks.
“Your wine,” I say, holding out the tall-stemmed glass to her before picking up my own. “Cin cin.” We clink our glasses together, and our gazes hold for a second before we take a sip.
“How much longer?” she asks, staring down into the water.
“You know a watched pot never boils.”
“Of course it does … eventually.” The sideways look she gives me comes with a faint smile.
I reach out to cup her jaw and kiss her more thoroughly this time. Her body melts against mine, and it’s the gentle bubble of the water that pulls us apart. “See, if you don’t watch the pot, it boils.”
A laugh spills from her lips as she pushes me away. “You think you’re so funny,” she admonishes, a grin spreading her cheeks wide. “Now make yourself useful and get me the pasta. I’m hungry.”
I gather the strands of fresh fettucine from a local deli and plop them into the simmering water. Then, retrieving my glass of wine, I prop myself beside her against the edge of the marble counter.
“If you set the table, I’ll toss the fettucine in the sauce,” she suggests. I refill our glasses, then grab the plates from the cupboards and silverware from the drawer.
While my dining table seats ten, most times I prefer to sit on the stools at the counter. “Table or stools?” I ask.
“Stools,” she says while placing the two plates with heaped swirls of pasta down in front of me.
When she’s seated beside me, I pick up my glass. “A toast.”
She tips hers toward me.
“To us being home,” I say, and our eyes lock in a silent commitment. The words I’ve been keeping in my heart no longerable to be contained. I reach out to thread the fingers of my free hand into her hair, and she tilts her head into my palm.
“I love you, Lucia. Not like I loved you as a friend. This is so much bigger, so much more. It’s a feeling that’s hard to describe.” I swallow deeply. “But I feel it in every breath that’s filled with your scent, every beat of my heart, and every light touch of your skin that sends sparks of heat flowing through my veins. I belong to you completely. And I hope that’s enough.”
Her full lips gape and her eyes turn to liquid pools, but her gaze doesn’t waver from mine.
“You’ve always been enough for me, Antonio. I love you too. I always have,” she whispers, and a single tear slips down her cheek. I brush it away with my thumb before it reaches her chin.
“Really?”
“Sì.”
