Page 34 of Roguefinder

“The lady at the bread place gave it to me. She called me molto affasci-something.”

“Affascinante?”

He brightened. “That was it.”

“She called you charming.”

He shoved the rest of the cannoli into his mouth and spoke around it. “Can’t argue with that.”

I couldn’t, so I just shook my head. “You conquered Rome in a day. You’re more efficient than the Visigoths.”

“Goths?”

“Not that kind.”

We reached the house, and he punched in the code and held the gate. “Everyone was so nice. I’ve always heard that Europeans dislike Americans.”

“You’re easy to love,” I said as I passed him.

He said nothing as he shut the gate, but pink touched his cheekbones.

Inside, I sent him upstairs with our bags and told him to shower while I put away the groceries and took stock of the kitchen. It was as beautiful as the rest of the house, with a professional grade range, copper cookware, and marble countertops.

Within moments, I had pasta boiling on the stove. A smile tugged at my lips as I pounded chicken flat and dusted it with flour.

I fell into the rhythm of cooking, my mind going quiet as my hands stayed busy. The kitchens I’d worked in had always been chaotic places, but cooking for myself was a meditative task. No tickets piling up, no sous chef barking orders from the pass. Just me, a sharp knife, and all the little steps that kept me from dwelling on things I couldn’t control.

Wood creaked, and Caleb appeared in the doorway wearing a T-shirt and a pair of pajama pants. His hair was damp, the blond darker than usual and curling at the ends. “I don’t know what you’re making, but I plan on smashing it.”

“Chicken piccata.” I nodded toward the table where I’d set out olive oil and bruschetta. “Sit.”

“Oui, chef,” he said, smiling at me as he obeyed. “What’s the Italian equivalent of that?”

I ladled extra sauce over the cutlets. “To be honest, I’m not sure. I’ve never worked in an Italian kitchen.”

He shot me a mischievous look. “Something to consider if you ever get sick of writing bestsellers.”

“I have my hands full feeding you.” I plated the chicken and gave it a final shot of fresh lemon. When I set a steaming plate in front of Caleb, he caught my hand and kissed the inside of my wrist. “It looks amazing, Jesse. Thank you.”

Something warm and solid flowed through the mate bond. “Love” was the official name, but it was more than that. It was complicated and not complicated at all.

It was a gift—something Caleb had given me long after I’d given up finding it.

My voice was thick as I brushed a thumb over his jaw, savoring the rasp of his stubble on my skin. “Watching you eat might be my favorite thing.”

Eyes twinkling, he turned his head and bit the tip of my thumb. “I’d like to go on record that I could make a sex joke right now but have chosen not to.”

It was useless fighting my smile. “Admirable restraint.”

“I think so.”

A buzzing sound filled the air behind me. I turned and went to my phone on the counter. The message on the screen was short.

6 p.m. audience tomorrow at Teatro della Rosa. Do not be late.

“What is it?” Caleb asked.

I set down the phone and carried my own plate to the table. “Stefanos has secured an audience tomorrow with Carlo Gesualdo.”