He leaned over the counter and kissed me hard. “Good.” He slid a glass of wine my way, and I took it, sipping the dry, rich red with appreciation. Marcus had some great wines.
“What are you making?”
“Chicken piccata. Angel-hair pasta.”
My stomach growled.
“I thought we’d eat upstairs.”
“On the roof?”
He nodded, and I watched, fascinated, as the tips of his ears turned a dull red.
“I wanted to take you out, like a date, but I decided we should stick close to home. So, I brought the date to you,” he said, not meeting my eyes.
“Marcus,” I breathed out.
He lifted his gaze. “Soon, we can. Once this is done, I’ll take you anywhere you want to go. But for tonight, I thought you’d like to eat outside, enjoy the air, see the stars, and maybe dance a little under the moonlight.”
I was touched by his gesture. “I would love that.” I glanced down. “Maybe I should change.”
“Why don’t you have a bath while I finish this? Take your wine and soak. I thought we’d eat about six, so you have lots of time.”
I didn’t offer to help him cook. That was his thing, and he did it far too well for me to try to interfere. He was organized and meticulous in the kitchen—much the same way he was in running his team.
“Okay.”
He filled my glass and tapped it toward me. “Off you go.”
I glanced over my shoulder before I left the room. He was busy, chopping, turning to stir the sauce, reaching for some fresh parsley he must have picked. Completely in control, happy in his element, and deep in concentration, he looked sexy with a towel thrown over his shoulder, his hair mussed, and an intense look on his face.
The sudden thought that he was mine, that he belonged to me, hit me, and I had to grab the doorframe in shock as those words permeated my mind. I had never belonged to anyone before. I had never loved anyone the way I loved Marcus. There was a deep, abiding sense of rightness when I looked at him. I saw a future with him. A different kitchen, with sunshine surrounding us, him cooking, me laughing and teasing him, little faces beaming up at us from their seats at the table. I shook my head—I had never thought about children of my own until now. But with Marcus, I could see them. Living our lives together. Building a home, a family. Growing old, sitting on the porch rocking, watching our grandchildren one day.
“Do you want children?” I asked.
He glanced up, startled to find me still there, as well as my out-of-the-blue question.
“Definitely.”
“With me?”
He wiped his hands and crossed the room, standing in front of me. He cupped my cheeks between his large palms and bent to brush a kiss over my mouth. “I want everything with you, sweetheart. And soon, we’ll sit down and figure it all out. Plan our future. But for tonight, I just want you beside me, eating the food I made you. Then I want to hold you in my arms for a while. Can we do that tonight?”
I wrapped my free hand around his wrist, meeting his intense, loving dark gaze.
“Yes.”
He pressed another kiss to my mouth. “Good.”
He’d thought of everything. A pretty table, a small bunch of flowers in the middle. A blanket to sit on afterward. The food was incredible, the wine he served cold and delicious. We talked about everything and nothing as we ate. He shared a few amusing stories of antics he’d gotten into as a kid.
“I drove my parents crazy, I think. I was always into something I shouldn’t be. My mom was smart and decided to teach me how to cook. She knew it would occupy my mind and my hands, and I could get into less trouble.”
“Did you love it right away?”
He pursed his lips, pausing to take a sip of wine. “Love is a strong word. It was better than having to do the dishes, which is what often happened. I wasn’t so sure about it until I made my first marinara and my dad said it was better than his.” He grinned. “Then, I was hooked. I was determined every dish be better. After that, it was hard to keep me out of the kitchen.”
I twirled the angel-hair pasta, slowly chewing the delicious mouthful. “You learned well.”
He watched me with an indulgent smile. “My parents would have loved you,” he said quietly. “They would have been crazy with their affection.”
“Were they?” I asked. “Affectionate, I mean?”
“Very. Hugs, kisses, praise. With each other. With my nonna. With me. My friends loved them.” He studied me, his head tilted. “What about your grandmother?”
“She loved me,” I said. “I knew that. But she wasn’t much for hugs or kisses. I think she was too busy trying to keep life from beating us down. On occasion, she’d pat my cheek and say ‘good girl,’ but that was it, really. Kisses were rare. She’d tell me I was smart and clever. That I could do anything I set my mind to.” I shrugged. “She tried.”