Page 65 of The Magic We Made

“Whatdoyou want, then?” I tease, already knowing the answer because I can feel it pressing against my thighs.

But he surprises me.

“I want to take you to the sandwich shop down the street from my apartment in the city,” he says, his eyes no longer winter lakes of darkness but sparkling with humor and excitement. “They’ve got the best porchetta I’ve ever had. I’m sure it’s not as good as your dad’s, but I think you’ll love it. We could go to pay tribute to him. Would you want to do that with me sometime?”

“Are you asking me out on a date?” It’s the first time either of us has even remotely hinted that there might be a future for this relationship beyond tonight. “A date in the city?”

“Yes, I am. Will you go?”

I reach up to lay a hand on his cheek. It’s been a while since he shaved, and his whiskers feel stiff and wiry. I don’t mind, though.

“Yes,” I whisper. “I’ll go.”

“Good.” He disappoints me then by rolling off me and reaching for his briefs. “Now I’ve got another question for you.”

“Oh, God. What is it?”

“Are you hungry? I didn’t get anything to eat at that party, and we just burned a shitload of calories. I think I need to carbo-load if we’re going to go again. That is...” He looks a little shy. “If you want to. Do you have patients tomorrow?”

“No, I don’t. I try not to schedule patients on Sundays, unless it’s an emergency.”Sunday is a day of rest.I heard this mantra repeated so many times by my mother, it basically lives in my brain.

“Would you mind if I grabbed a sandwich or something?” he asks. “I’d go back to my house but—”

I grin at him. “You don’t have anything there to eat. Don’t worry. I think I can do better than a sandwich. Come with me.”

That’s how we end up in my kitchen, eating my mother’s leftover risotto, as Daisy stares at us sadly from in front of the sliding glass doors. She seems to be holding out hope one of us is going to open those doors so she can sneak back to her home beneath the porch steps. Alas for her, neither of us does.

“This is so good,” Ash keeps saying. He’s sitting beside me at my dining table wearing only a pair of boxer briefs and the cashmere throw from the sofa I’ve draped over his big shoulders so he won’t be cold, since he doesn’t have a robe like I do. “But I didn’t want you to go to any trouble. We could have just ordered in.”

“Reheating something in the microwave is no trouble, Ash. Besides, it’s after ten at night. Do you think there’s any place in West Harbor that delivers after ten?”

“What about pizz—”

“Don’t.”I narrow my eyes and point my spoon at him, mock threateningly. “Don’t say it. Don’t even think it. This is a small town, and I come from a family of Italian restauranteurs. I would never live down the humiliation if my mother found out I got carryout pizza delivered.”

He grins some more and says, “Okay. I’m not complaining. This is the best risotto I’ve ever had.”

“It’s my nonna’s recipe from the old country. Do you know the eight steps to making perfect risotto?”

“I don’t even know the first step to making perfect risotto.”

I tick off the steps on my fingers. “First you makela base—that’s thesoffritto, which is usually finely chopped onion or shallot.Then there’sla tentazione—the temptation—orla tostatura. That’s when you toast the rice. That’s what gives it this nutty flavor. You have to use arborio rice, of course.”

“Of course.” I notice he’s watching me closely... especially my lips. “I like how you say that word...la tentazione.You’reatentazione.”

“Am I?” No one has ever called me a temptation before. Cheesy as it is, I kind of like it. “You know, you have a pretty good accent.”

“Switzerland has four official languages. They made us learn them all. But somehow they never got around to teaching us the eight steps to perfect risotto.”

“Well, good thing I’m here, then.” Smiling, I get up to refill his glass. I’d opened a bottle of pinot grigio one of my family members had left at my house, most likely Angie. “The next step is the wine, also known as the sigh, oril sospiro—”

“I like how you say that, too.” His gaze is definitely glued to my mouth.

“Thanks.” I put the wine bottle down and slip back into the chair beside him. “In some places in Italy, they call itlo sfumato, or the smoking, because the alcohol causes a puff of smoke—”

“You’resfumato.” One of his big hands creeps up to stroke my hair.

I burst out laughing, though I’m secretly thrilled by this second, even cheesier compliment. “That doesn’t even make any sense.”