Page 24 of All's Fair in Love and Pizza
“Beer, if you have it. If not, I—holy freaking crap.” Mateo marched to the wall of windows overlooking the sun setting over the Pacific. “This is a killer view. When they were building this place, I remember thinking it was going to be some monster mansion, but it’s really…nice.”
“Thanks, I like it.” I popped the tops off two beers and joined him at the window, handing him one. “I bought it from the contractor after the original investor pulled out.”
“Does anyone else live here?”
“No, just me.”
Mateo lifted a curious brow. “By yourself? Geez, it’s fuckin’ huge.”
He was right.
But I’d earned a fuckton of money and had invested wisely in stocks and real estate. I still owned condos in Manhattan and Dallas, a house in Hollywood Hills, an estate in Indiana near my family, and this house, a five-bedroom beach chalet.
It was more house than I needed and I swore I wasn’t one to flaunt my wealth, but privacy was important. Some athletes were stalked like rock stars and while that wasn’t me, I wanted to be insulated from prying eyes…to be on the safe side.
Besides, I’d always loved this stretch of beach. I used to come out here whenever I’d felt overwhelmed by college courses and football…and life in general. The miles of golden sand and the ribbon of blue that kissed the sky at the horizon had always calmed me.
“Where do you live?” I asked conversationally.
“Above the shop.” Mateo shot a suspicious glance my way. “Why?”
“So I can throw eggs at your window later. Why else?”
“Ha. Ha.”
I followed him to the kitchen and leaned on the island, sipping beer while Mateo poked his head into my oven and examined the built-in air fryer and the vent above the stove.
“Check out the fridge too. It’s new.”
Mateo opened the Sub-Zero and whistled. “It’s bigger than my first car, and…it’s empty. Don’t you eat?”
I patted my belly with a laugh. “I think it’s obvious I don’t miss many meals.”
His gaze went molten with desire and damn it, I couldn’t breathe for a hot second.
“Quit fishin’ for compliments. You look good, and you know it.”
“Gee, thanks.”
“Mmm.” Mateo flopped onto the nearest barstool. “You don’t really think I’m gonna share a family recipe, do you?”
I took another slug from my bottle. “No. But I think we need to officially call a truce and figure out a way to be civil. And maybe talk about this extracurricular thing we’ve got going on.”
“And you went with sauce,” Mateo teased, a ghost of a smile lifting his lips at one side. “Wow.”
I picked up one of the bottle caps I’d tossed onto the island earlier and threw it at his head. “You’re an asshole.”
He caught it easily, flashing a wide grin. “Fine. Truce…we’ll talk sauce and sex.”
“Sauce first.”
“Okay. But just so you know, that’s like asking for tips on salad dressings. There are too many kinds to list—thousand island, blue cheese, ranch. Same with ‘sauces.’ You can havepesto, alfredo,arrabbiata,Bolognese. Even a basic marinara varies between chefs. We still use my great-grandmother’s recipe at Boardwalk, but if I told you the ingredients, I’d have to murder you.”
I chuckled, charmed by his mischievous expression. Mateo still had that bad-boy vibe he’d cultivated in college, and damn, it was intoxicating.
“Keep your recipes, and I’ll keep mine. However, in the spirit of a truce, I bought tomatoes and spices and pulled up a decent-looking marinara recipe online. I thought maybe you could give me some pointers.”
“How’d we go from a BJ in your office to marinara tips? Your sexy game has taken a nose dive, Vilmer,” he chided without heat. “Try again.”
