by Piper Rayne
“I know.”
“I mean…”
“I know, Dom. Don’t worry, I don’t think it’s because of me.”
But it is because of her.
“What’s going on with your parents?”
“Sorry if I woke you. A pipe burst or something at my parents’ store. They’re frantic. My dad’s trying to figure out what the issue is, but we all know he isn’t a fix-it man and I have this—”
“I’ll go.” I push up off the doorframe.
“No!” She stands and shakes her head violently. “I can handle it. I woke you. Go back to bed.”
“I’m not going back to bed, and I have no pressing meetings today. I can do it.”
Her shoulders slump. “Are you sure? I mean, it’s Monday. You’re usually all chipper on Monday mornings to start your week.”
God, she does know me well.
“It’s fine. Call your ma and tell her I’ll be there in an hour. My dad has a friend who’s a plumber, so I’ll call in a favor.”
“You’re a lifesaver.” She rushes toward me and throws her arms around my neck.
My arms beg me to pull her close, wrap around her and don’t let her go. But I stand there until she feels awkward that I’m not hugging her back and that my hard dick is pressing into her stomach.
“Sorry. Thank you.”
“No problem.” I head into my room to change and call my dad about his friend so I can get the fuck out of here before I storm into her room and show her the only thing that will quench my dick—her.
An hour later, I’m back in Brooklyn. I walk into the corner store, and sure enough, my dad’s friend is already there. It’s good to have a big family with connections.
“Dominic!” Giada runs toward me.
The water damage is somewhat extensive. Two aisles full of food have wet drywall caked all over them, and the ceiling is open where the weight of the soaked drywall fell through.
“Hi, Mrs. Cavallo. Wow, this is bad.” My phone vibrates in my pocket, but I ignore it.
“I know, I know. Valentina had that meeting and I know it’s important, but this…” She puts her hands out, signaling the mess. “It’s a lot. We’ll have to throw away and restock.”
The sadness is clear in her tone and her face. If I stay here, this will be an all-day venture. I can already hear Mr. Cavallo micromanaging my dad’s friend. I’ll have to help them clean up then figure this out. I look down at my suit.
Fuck.
My phone vibrates again. I put my finger up and step away, pulling my phone from my pocket and seeing my office number. “I’ll be right back.” I answer the call. “Ash, did you get my message?”
“Yes, I got your message. You forgot about your meeting, I’m assuming?”
“Meeting?”
“The meeting that was rescheduled on Friday? The one where you’re supposed to present the portfolio?”
“Shit,” I murmur.
Mrs. Cavallo is thankfully trying to take care of a customer now, filling them in on what happened and what won’t be available today.
“I’m in Brooklyn.”
“You’re where? It’s Monday. You usually beat me here.” There’s an impatience I’ve never heard in her tone.
I look at the mess and at Mrs. Cavallo telling the story to the customer. The tears leaking from her eyes. She looks so much like her daughter, it’s scary. If I want to know what Val will look like in twenty-five years, I do.
“I’m going to have to reschedule. See if you can set it up for tomorrow. My hands are tied.”
She huffs. “You want me to go in there and tell them what?”
“Tell them I’m sick or that I have a family emergency. Yeah, just say family emergency.”
“So lie.”
I push a hand through my hair. “Not really. It’s Val’s parents’ store with the problem and Val’s my wife, so it’s family. Not a lie.”
“You mean I’m not lying so you can screw some random chick all day? You’re not coming in because you’re helping someone?”
The surprise in her tone pisses me off. Just because I’m a workaholic doesn’t mean I’m a complete asshole. “Yes. There was a plumbing issue and I have to help them figure this out. Val had an important meeting and—”
“Say no more. I’ll handle it. I’m sure everyone will understand.”
“Thanks?” A second ago, it sounded like she wanted to rake me over the coals.
“You’re welcome. Now go help your in-laws. I’ll call if anything else arises.”
“Thanks a lot, Ash.”
“It’s what assistants are for.”
She hangs up, and I tuck the phone into my slacks before taking off my jacket and laying it over a bag of chips. My phone vibrates again as I roll up the sleeves of my expensive shirt. I pull it out and see that it’s Val.
Val: How bad is it? I can come.
Val: I’ll reschedule. This isn’t your problem.
Val: I should’ve just canceled the meeting.
I shake my head because this is Val. She hates inconveniencing people, yet she’s the first one to inconvenience herself if someone else needs her help.
Me: Not bad. I’m good to handle it. Just worry about your meeting.
Val: Are you sure? Ma said something about the drywall falling and food being destroyed?
Me: Just an over-exaggeration. You know our mas. I’ll probably only be an hour late to work. Good luck with your meeting.
Val: Oh good. Thanks again. I owe you one.
Me: Can I put in a request? ;)
She doesn’t respond and I didn’t expect her to, but I can’t stop making sexual innuendos because sex with Val is the only thing on my damn mind. I want her any way I can have her, and the longer I live with her, the more I crave her. Lately, I see no way of getting out of this without destroying either my dick or us.
Chapter Fifteen
Valentina
* * *
I walk into my parents’ store still in my heels and pantsuit, and I blink to make sure I’m seeing things correctly.
“Valentina!” Ma coos, rushing toward me with a huge smile.
My dad is refilling the shelves, and my eyes catch on Dom in the corner of the store, his dress shirt rolled up to his forearms and his tie gone. His hair isn’t gelled back like it usually is, but instead, it’s messy like after we’ve had sex all day. He glances at me then back at the man he’s speaking with.
“It looks good,” I say, watching a man on a ladder mudding and taping the new ceiling.
“Dominic, he took charge.”
“I thought it wasn’t anything big?” I don’t look at Ma because I’m too busy scouring what has happened in such a short amount of time. My meeting went well and since I was last up, I accepted when they asked me to lunch because I thought Dom would be long gone and everything would already be resolved.
“I told you. The whole ceiling fell through.” She gestures to the man on the ladder as if that explains everything.
“But Dom said it would only be…” I huff, a smile pulling at my lips.
Who would’ve guessed? Dominic Mancini lied to me for my own gain.
“That’s the insurance guy,” she says. “Dominic’s negotiating what we’re going to get because he paid out of his pocket to get this all fixed, so we didn’t have to wait.”
A customer comes in and ma rushes to them to see if they need help, then she rounds the counter to check them out. I walk around the aisles toward the refrigerator cases. I see a garbage can full of dented cans with ripped and drenched labels at the end of the aisle. There are a few more bins of ruined food by the back door of the storage room.
“You married a good one,” my dad says when I approach. The shelves he’s stocking aren’t chipped or aged like the ones that have been present since I was a child. They’re brand new.
“It was bad, huh?”
My dad stands up, holding his back, which tells me he’s been working hard all day. “They say it wa
s a plumbing issue from upstairs, but Dom’s guy said we’re good now. He replaced some of the plumbing and said it won’t happen again.” My dad swings an arm around my shoulder. “Dominic took care of everything. The clean-up crew, the plumber, the construction crew. He bought new shelves and helped us get new food in. We have no choice but to wait on some items but…”
As my dad brags on about all Dominic has done in such a short amount of time, my vision veers to him. He’s pointing at a contract and handing receipts to the insurance representative. They’re disagreeing about something and Dom doesn’t look like he’s about to back down.
But why would Dom do this? A man who can’t leave work early for dinner took an entire day off to help my parents?
I desperately want to believe he did it because he’s lying to himself and his feelings for me haven’t diminished but are alive and kicking under his hard exterior. But it could all be because we’re acting like we’re married, and in any Italian family, the son-in-law would help his wife’s parents no matter the cost. Or maybe it’s just because in our culture, you help someone when they’re in need.
I chew on my cheek, and he glances up as though he can sense my gaze on him. A small grin pulls on his lips and ignites that fluttery feeling in my stomach.
Bending, I help my dad stock the rest of the shelf, wishing Dom didn’t do nice things like this. It makes me believe I might be enough to change him. That one day he’d pick me over his work. But I have to remember that times like this are the exception, not the rule.
Days later, right after I get home—or not home, but Dom’s—there’s a knock on the door.
I head over to the door, nervous about who it could be. I still fear that one day, I’ll open the door to Nell wearing a trench coat and nothing else, asking for Dom. Rising on my tiptoes, I look out the peephole and fall back down to my heels before opening the door.
“Ma?”
She walks in, her arms filled with bags of food.
“What’s going on?” I ask.
I move to shut the door, but Anna Mancini comes in right after. Which explains how they got past the doorman.
“We’re going to teach you how to cook Dom’s favorite meal.” Ma unpacks her groceries on the large island.
Anna drops her own bags before hugging me. “He loves my gnocchi. He tries to act like a meat-and-potatoes guy, but he loves the pasta.” She beams at me and helps Ma locate all the cookware they’ll need.
“You need to learn to cook if you’re going to be married,” Ma says, pointing at me with a wooden spoon she’s pulled out of a drawer.
“Dom’s a great cook. He can be the chef in our marriage.” I slide onto the breakfast stool. I’m not resorting to the typical nineteen-fifties housewife role.
“But he took off work to help us. Your parents. You need to thank him.” Ma’s eyes beg me not to embarrass her in front of my new mother-in-law.
And with an Italian mama comes guilt, so I slide off the stool and round the island.
Anna pulls three aprons from her bag. “Step one, you do not get dirty.” She puts an apron over my head and spins me by placing her hands on my hips before tying it in the back.
I look down to see what my apron says, and I shake my head with a chuckle. “Kiss me, I’m Italian” with the Italian flag underneath.
“You can both wear it.” Anna beams. “Here, Giada.”
I tie Ma’s apron that reads, “I’m the sauce boss.”
Lastly, Anna puts on hers, and Ma ties the back. “Your opinion wasn’t in the recipe” is faded on the front and there are a few stains, which means she bought aprons for Ma and me, but hers is one of her own. It’s a sweet gesture, and the hug Ma gives her conveys how much she loves this. She’s had friendships, but she wants family. Always has.
“Now.” Anna spins me toward the sink. “We wash hands. Hot water and soap.”
I’m slightly offended she didn’t think I knew that much, but I keep my reaction in check. We wash our hands and dry them with paper towels after she scolds me for using the dishtowel because it’s “not sanitary.” I nod and throw away my paper towel, feeling all kinds of uncomfortable and incompetent.
“When will Dom be home?” Anna asks.
I look at Ma as if I’m ten and someone asked me a question I have no answer for. She waits—because this is the kind of information a wife should know.
“He usually comes home later,” I say, which appeases Anna. She’s familiar with her son’s obsessive work hours.
“He’ll be so happy when you present him this meal.” She shares a smile with Ma as though if the two of them could rule the world, they’d match up all good Italian singles. “I got these ready beforehand. They’re just cool enough. But next time, you just bake the potato.” Anna holds out a few baked potatoes. “You know how to use the oven, right?”
Ma eyes me like “don’t embarrass me because I never taught you to cook.” Blanca can probably make the seven fish meal for Christmas Eve and I can’t boil water. Italian mamas teach their daughters, but my mother was too busy when I was growing up.
“Of course she does,” Ma says.
I’ve heated pizzas. Hello, I have a son to feed. Although there were a lot of Lunchables and takeout through the years.
“Okay, ‘cause Blanca acts like I handed her a map and told her to get me to California when I to cook with her. She’s lost from the time I say go. The boys know more than her, which isn’t much. Except for my Dominic.”
I laugh, and my anxiety lessens now that I know she might not have as high expectations as I thought. Ma smiles too, now that she doesn’t feel bad for having a daughter who can’t cook.
As Anna is instructing me how to scoop the potatoes out of the skin, the key in the door alerts us to Dom’s imminent arrival. They both look at me for an answer as to why Dom is home when I said he’d be home later. All of our heads shift toward the microwave clock at the same time. It’s four-thirty. He shouldn’t be home.
But the door slowly opens, and Dom stands there, staring at us in bewilderment. His tie is loose but still knotted around his neck. Other than that, he’s just Dom. Put-together and gorgeous with the weight of the world on his shoulders. He places his keys into the dish and his bag on the chair.
“Hello, everyone,” he says, toeing out of his shoes. “Ma.” He walks into the kitchen and kisses her cheek. “Mrs. Cavallo.” He hugs her and kisses both cheeks.
The two of us stand there because to show our mas we’re trying, he should kiss me hello, but he just stands there.
“Hey, babe,” he finally says and hugs me, kissing the side of my neck.
I slide into his large frame with the same ease I always have, and I find it as warm, welcoming, and safe as it’s always been. But he steps back quickly, inspecting the counter.
“Gnocchi. I love you.” He smiles at Anna.
“Valentina is going to prepare the meal,” Ma says with a huge smile.
Dom places his arm around my waist, pulling me into his side. “Really? I’d like to see this. The other day she changed the clock time on the oven because she couldn’t figure out how to turn it on.” He chuckles, as do our mothers.
I swat his stomach. “You have these fancy appliances, that’s why.”
“Sure, babe. Sure.” He kisses my cheek and leaves me standing there in a mush of goo. “I’m going to change.”
“Then you can come and help,” Anna calls. Her body language says we need to hurry as though there’s a surprise party and the guest is about to arrive.
“I made the sauce.” Ma raises her hand. “But I left the recipe for you, Valentina, and we’ll show you that later. Let’s get it heated though.” She pours the sauce into a waiting pot on the stove.
“Oh, Giada, it smells wonderful,” Anna says.
Our mas talk about my ma’s sauce and her grandmother’s recipe that keeps getting tweaked. They discuss how, back in the day, you couldn’t change a recipe at all but how all their ancestors probably chang
ed them through the years anyway.
I’m busy scooping out potatoes and my mind is on so many things that I don’t notice Dom’s rejoined us until his chest hits my back. His hands extend around me, taking the potato and the spoon, showing me how to get the most potato out. Shivers run up my spine and I close my eyes from the scent of his cologne.
“That way you get it all,” he whispers.
“Dominic? You know how to make gnocchi?” Ma asks, leaning her hip on the counter, watching him teach me.
“He’s quite the cook,” I say. “All different cuisines.”
“Really? When do you find the time?” Ma asks.
“I’m a night owl.” He’s lying. The truth is he practices on weekends when he’s counting the minutes until Monday morning. His voice is low in my ear and I can’t help but let myself fall back into his strong chest as he says, “Then you take the potatoes and add some flour, egg yolks, and salt.”
He manipulates my hands to crack an egg, and the egg white drips from our hands.
“Now you need to wash,” Anna the pseudo health department inspector lectures.
We wash our hands while Anna takes over kneading the dough.
“Ma, that’s the fun part. Let Val,” Dom says.
Anna smiles at him as though he’s the Pope, and she steps aside. Dom resumes his position behind me, his hands on mine. Is he doing this for our mas’ sakes? Because if so, I’d like to ask them to move in with us so I can do this every night.
We roll the dough out, and he cuts it into small pieces.
“I have the water going,” Ma says.
“Perfect.” He runs the small nuggets of dough along a fork. “This is for the sauce to soak into the gnocchi more.” Again, he uses my hands as though they’re his, directing me to do what’s needed. He puts a handful on a plate, and we turn toward the stove where the water boils. “Now we go over to the water. Heavily salted?”
I’m surprised our mas aren’t offended. But they nod, watching us as though we’re the latest romance movie.
“You drop them in, and when they float, we’re going to take them out.” He hands the plate to me.