Page 66 of The Magic We Made

“It doesn’t mean smoking hot?” But he’s laughing, too, so I know he’s kidding.

“No, it does not. But thank you, that’s very kind of you. See? I’m learning to accept your compliments.”

“About time. What’s next?”

“The next step is the cooking—la cottura. This is when you ladle in the stock—”

“And stir?” His dark eyes look very bright. “Is that the stirring part?”

“Oh, yes. My nonna used to have us do the stirring—it was the best part. My brother and sisters and I would fight over who got to stir.”

“I guess that’s the only good part of not having any siblings.” He’s polished off everything in his bowl and is now concentrating solely on me. The cashmere throw has slipped from his shoulders, but he doesn’t notice. “No fighting.”

“No,” I say. “The fighting is the best part. During the next step—il riposo, when you let the risotto rest a bit—my siblings and I would help grate the parmigiana.”

He reaches out and drags me to his lap. I let him because it feels so natural... even homey.

But alsosfumato.

“Pay attention,” I say. “The most important step is next—la mantecatura.”

He leans forward to kiss the back of my neck. He seems to like doing this. “Never heard of it.”

“That’s because there’s no English translation—or a Swiss or German one. It’s purely Italian. When the risotto is almost finished, you stir in the butter and parmigiana. That’s what gives the risotto that creamy texture.”

“Hmmm,” he says. Thanks to my seat on his lap, I realize the carbo-loading has worked: he’s ready for round two.

And he knows it.

“But wait,” I cry as his arms tighten around me. “Don’t forget the final step,la mangiare—”

He’s risen from the table, cradling me. He seems to like carrying me around.

“Oh, I for one will be doing plenty of eating in the next five minutes,” he assures me.

And he isn’t exaggerating.

Frankie

I wake up disoriented.

At first I can’t figure out why. I’m in my own bed. The soft gray light of dawn is filtering in through the edges of my blinds. I can hear the mourning doves cooing happily outside my windows.

But there’s another sound nearby I can’t quite make out. Maybe it’s related to the unfamiliar weight beside me that, in my sleep-dazed state, I assume is the cat.

Then I open my eyes and see it’s not a cat. It’s my neighbor Ash, sleeping next to me on his stomach, stark naked.

And then the memories from last night come flooding into my brain, and for a second I just have to lie there, staring at the ceiling while feeling the weight of Ash’s arm curled around my waist, and his soft gentle breathing against the pillow beside me.

Oh, yeah. I banged my next-door neighbor.

Not just any next-door neighbor. Ash Merit.

A week ago, if you’d told me I’d be waking up in bed with Ash Merit after a night of scorching—and let’s be honest, prettyimaginative—lovemaking, I’d have suggested you might need neurological testing.

But now things are different. Looking at him as he sleeps beside me in the dim morning light, I can’t help but wonder how I could possibly have hated him as much as I had. Sure, he’s a terrible landlord, and even worse at navigating social situations—except ones that involve sex, evidently.Thathe handles with unbridled enthusiasm—one might even say expertise.

But there’s just something about him....