Page 42 of The Ache That Stayed

By evening, exhaustion hit me like a brick. The only thing that would keep my mind off the presence lurking in the shadows was cooking.

I decided to give Concetta’s famous dip another go. Marcello’s mother had shown me the dip once in Sicily. I’d burnt the garlic terribly while arguing proportion sizes with her, and she scolded me for cutting corners. I remember how Kyra and Santino had just laughed when we had to start all over again.

But this time, I’d nailed it.

The texture was right. The garlic toasted just enough. The olive oil glossy, without drowning it.

I dipped my finger into the bowl and tasted it.

Perfect.

A small sound of satisfaction escaped me, smile tugging at my lips. Not even the brooding asshole could ruin this mood.

“What are you grinning at?”

His voice came from behind me, deep, low. For a brief second, my pulse kicked; his voice felt like ice down my spine. I hated how he could pull that reaction out of me despite everything. But I refused to give him a reaction.

“Nothing.”

His scent hit me before the heat of him did—smoke, worn leather, clean cologne buried beneath sweat and engine grease. Rugged. Masculine. Raw in a way that should’ve repulsed me after hours spent under a bike.

It didn’t.

My lungs filled with it anyway. Then I felt the heat from him as he stepped closer.

“That’s not nothing. You only smile like that when you’ve won something.”

I rolled my eyes but couldn’t stop the smile.

“It’s Concetta’s famous recipe.”

“The dip?”

“Yup,” I said, enunciating the p, making it pop.

He leaned to look into the bowl and took a whiff.

“Smells good.”

He lifted his hand to dip a finger in. I smacked it away instantly.

“Ew. Don’t. Your hands are filthy.”

He looked down at his knuckles. Grease stained the edges of his fingers.

“This?” He lifted his hands, looking at them. Tattoos shifted under skin as he flexed his fingers unconsciously.

“You were tearing apart your bike covered in gunk ten minutes ago.”

He shrugged, entirely unbothered. “What’s a little grease? Builds character. Toughens the immune system.”

Before I could think about it, I dipped my own finger into the bowl again and held it out.

“Here. Taste it.”

The gesture was casual. Automatic. The way it used to be.

I don’t know why I did it.