Page 46 of Drive Me Crazy
“Blake!Benvenuto!”
The man pulls him into a hug, placing exaggerated kisses on both of his cheeks. The two of them start talking in rapid-fire Italian. Yep. Blake’s bilingual. Technically, he’s trilingual since he speaks French, too. What can’t he fucking do? And why does everything have to make me like him more?
Italian Stallion finally turns to me. “You must be Ella. It’s a pleasure.” He grabs me by the shoulders and pulls me in, smacking two kisses on my cheeks before I can even say hello.
“Niceto meet you,” I say, my cheeks growing pink.
Is it possible to get high off the smell of someone’s cologne?
“It’s a pleasure to have you here. I’m Gabriel.” He turns back toward the house and motions for us to follow. “Come, come.”
“You can stop blushing.” Blake gives me a funny look. “He’s married … to a man named Alejandro.”
I smack him on the arm and walk extra fast so he’s a few paces behind me. Not before I see his satisfied grin, though. Gabriel leads us through his home, talking about its history. It’s the size of a small liberal arts college. Each room we pass through has the perfect blend of modern decor and antique accents. It’s elegant and comfortable. I would bet my savings account thatArchitectural Digesthas featured this home at one point or another.
We finally stop in the kitchen after walking for what feels like ten minutes.Oh. My. God.The massive island in the center of the room is barely visible underneath the mountain of ingredients covering it. Flour, fresh eggs, olive oil, carrots, celery, red onions, tomatoes, garlic, fresh parsley, sage, and rosemary.
Gabriel puts on an adorably cheesy apron that says, “Kiss the Cook.” He tosses Blake an even better one with the naked figure of Michelangelo’sDavid. I swallow a laugh as Blake pulls it over his head and ties it behind his back.
“Ella, do you want to grab a wine from the cellar?” Gabriel asks. “Whatever red looks best.”
I buy my wine based solely on which label I like the most, but I don’t think that’s what he means. His wine cellar is massive. Rows and rows of every wine imaginable, from Albariños to Zinfandels. I land on a Chianti Classico because Blake gave me a history lesson in the car all about the Chianti region in Tuscany. Naturally, he knows all of this from somedocumentary he watched on the Medici family. The wine’s from 2001, so at least I’m not dipping into the twentieth-century wines.
Blake and Gabriel are arguing about the chopping technique of a carrot when I walk back into the kitchen. Imagine two six-foot men, both in novelty aprons, and each holding a knife and waving it around like they’re conducting an orchestra.
“If you guys are going to kill each other, can you do it after we eat and after I’ve left?”
Both men stop talking and stare at me.
“I’m hungry and don’t want to get framed for your murders if you end up stabbing each other,” I admit, pouring three glasses of wine.
Blake places the onion on the table, grandly gesturing for Gabriel to take over and show him the correct technique. Gabriel flashes me a handsome smile. “Your Blake’s a stubborn one. I’m glad he has someone to keep him in line.”
I’ve never taken a sip of wine so quickly. It slides right down my throat without hitting my taste buds. I try not to read into the fact that he just called Blake mine.Not a date, Ella.But then again, he could’ve boiled a pot of Rossi boxed pasta and called it a day. Instead, he drove me to Gabriel Rossi’s home to have him help cook me a full-blown, homemade Italian dinner. How do I not read into that? I’m only human, after all.
The next hour passes quickly, the conversation between the three of us easy. Blake and I both offer to have Gabriel join us for dinner, but he bows out, claiming he has plans in town. So it looks like it’s just Blake and me. It’s fine. I’m fine. Totally not reading too much into this. We’ve eaten plenty of meals together. Is there more wine?
We eat outside on Gabriel’s patio. The view is so beautiful it looks hand-drawn. And the food? Best damn meal of my life.I twirl pasta around my fork. “This is my new death-row meal.”
“You’d change your death-row meal to my cooking? I’m flattered, love.”
Rolling my eyes, I take a bite. Yep. Definitely adding it to the rotation. Blake takes a sip of his wine, swirling it around in the glass afterward. “How’d you even come up with asking people their death-row meal?”
“You know Hinge?”
His brows burrow in confusion and he gives me a blank look. “Like a door hinge?”
“No … like the dating app.” I’m not sure why I even bothered asking. Of course Blake doesn’t know what Hinge is. He’s not looking for a relationship. And if he were, he’d be on Raya, not Hinge, like us mere mortals. “Anyway, they give you prompts to choose from and then you answer them and they appear on your profile.”
“And one of yours was asking people their death-row meal?” He shakes his head back and forth. “It’s no wonder you’re single.”
I narrow my eyes. “Excuse me, but if I remember correctly, you found the question wildly amusing.”
Blake shares a playful wink, leaning his elbows on the table. We end up spending over three hours outside. It still feels too short. Our conversation flows with no awkward lulls or pauses. We’re both eager to fill up every second with a story, a thought, a comment. When pesky bugs finally interrupt our evening, we decide to head inside with our empty plates.
“Isn’t the rule I cook and you clean?” Blake asks innocently.
“According to what rulebook?”
