Page 32 of Sin Deep
“Spaghetti and meatballs sounds so good. I am not anti-carbs. I figure I work enough; I can eat whatever I want.” He propped himself on the stool, admiring the lines of his lover’s body.
“I’m very pro-carbs myself, and blessed with an active metabolism, even still.” Winter pulled a heavy, lidded pot out of the oven and set it on the stove, trading it for a small tray of garlic bread. “Those are the meatballs; they are done and soaking up the sauce. I opened the leaves on my dining table in the living room so we can eat comfortably and not at that awful card table.”
“Oh, you are amazing.” His belly snarled. Those meatballs smelled good. “How was your work?”
“Oh, it was a good day.” Winter smiled over at him. “I spent most of my time researching civil war era rosters for someone doing some sort of genealogy study. Lots of reading. Tell me about what you moved today.”
“A gigantic wall safe. It was a crazy thing. From this insane condemned building to a fourth-floor walk-up.”
“Those are ridiculously heavy. How in the world did you do that? How many people did it take? I can’t even imagine getting something like that up flights of stairs.”
“We are a four-man team, with a driver and a spotter.” He’d been freaked the fuck out by halfway up the third floor. “The worst part was the first building. It smelled so bad.”
“All of that sounds awful. I’m glad that it’s over. I hate to think what had been going on in a condemned property before you got there.” Winter strained the pasta and put it back in the pot with some olive oil. Tossing it all together.
“What’s the oil for?” He loved watching Winter cook.
“Pasta likes to get sticky. I prefer it not sticky. Also, it adds some flavor. What would you like to drink? There’s soda in the fridge, wine in the living room. Milk. Water. Whatever you prefer.” Winter put on a hot mitt and stirred the meatballs around. “Mmm. These smell so good. I hope you’re hungry.”
“Starving. Can I have a big glass of water and then try the wine?” He saw people drinking wine with food all the time. He was curious.
“There are glasses in that cabinet. Help yourself.” Winter pointed with his chin, and pulled two big, shallow bowls from above the stove. “You can put two wine glasses on the table while you’re at it, and silverware please. In that drawer under the glasses.”
“Yes, sir.” He could do that. “So…you have a lot of stemmy glasses. Do the shapes mean things? And forks and knives? Spoons?”
“White wine has the smaller bowls, the tall skinny ones are champagne. The little ones are for liqueur. Red wine, wide, round bowls. We’re having red. And the silverware depends on how you like to eat spaghetti. Fork, knife, the larger spoons.”
“I can do that.” Big bowls. Forks. He didn’t need a spoon. His belly was gnawing on his backbone; he was so hungry.
Winter brought out bowls of spaghetti and a couple of meatballs each. “If you’d get the plate of garlic bread, please. I left it on the counter.” Winter pulled a bottle of wine from a cabinet next to the tiny fireplace.
“Yes, sir. I’m on it.” He put the glasses and the silverware down, then went back for the garlic bread. “This smells so good…”
“I hope you like it.” Winter opened the wine. “You don’t know about wine either I suppose, hm? I’ll teach you what I know. It’s not much, but I can open a bottle and enjoy it.”
“Sounds good to me. I just want to know what everyone is enjoying.” And the glass clinking was so sexy.
Winter cleared a spot on the table for him to put the bread, then poured them each some wine. “Sit, sit, petit. Please. Eat.”
“Oh, this smells like heaven.” He sat and served himself some before passing the noodles over. “Thank you so much.”
“You’re welcome. I hope it’s as good as it smells. I’m told I make good meatballs, but I don’t know that I’ve ever served them to a Texan.” Winter watched him, looking both serious and amused at the same time. Winter was clean-shaven and wearing an expensive-looking button down that probably had a tie over it earlier in the day.
“It’s going to be great. I can tell.” He waited for Winter to serve himself, and take a bite, then he dug in, groaning softly over the pasta. So good.
That seemed to make Winter happy, and he dug in too, curling his pasta with a fork and a spoon. “So what shall we try tonight, petit? Did you bring your book to read to me? Or shall we try painting your nails or try something new with your lovely eyes? Something else you might have in mind?”
“My nails?” He chuckled and held up his hands with their blackened and torn-up nails. He had a dozen-plus cuts and splinters and shit. At least they were clean. “There’s not hardly anything to paint.”
“Oh, petit. Your poor fingers. Let me see.” Winter turned them over, inspecting them, handling them like they were fragile. “A manicure then. No paint.”
“Okay. I don’t even know what that means.” He just wanted to make them both happy, when he came right down to it.
Winter laughed and held up his glass of wine. “Don’t you fret, my good boy. Just let me spoil you. Cheers.”
“Cheers.” They clinked the glasses and he took a sip. It was strong—way stronger than he’d expected—and peppery. Weird. Not bad, but weird.
“This is one of my favorites. What do you think?” Winter took another sip, set his glass down and swirled up another bite of spaghetti.
