Serafina

Father’s getting poked and prodded by Dr. Martinelli in his study while I’m in the kitchen doing something I haven’t done in three years—actually cooking for people who might appreciate it.

The Verrelli house had a chef. The Moretti house had takeout menus and hope. But Eva Moretti, bless her lying heart, did teach me how to make a mean osso buco before she shipped me off to marry a sociopath.

The smell of braised veal and soffritto fills the kitchen, and for a moment I’m eight years old again, standing on a step stool while fake-Mom showed me how to brown the meat just right. “The secret is patience, bambina,” she’d say. “Good things take time.”

Yeah, well, good things also take honesty, but we’re working with what we’ve got here.

I’m stirring the risotto when Father shuffles back into the dining room, looking like he’s been through a medical obstacle course.

“How’d it go?” I ask, not looking up from the pan because risotto is temperamental and I’m not burning lunch for my dying father on day two of our reunion.

“Fine. Someone’s going to join us today.”

I glance over. “Who?”

“Good day, Don Dorian.”

My spoon stops mid-stir. That voice does things to my nervous system that should probably be illegal in several states.

I turn around, and there’s Adrian in the doorway, looking like he stepped out of a magazine spread titled “Men Who Could Ruin Your Life in the Best Possible Way.”

“Adrian.” I try to sound casual and probably sound like I’m choking on my own tongue. “Hi.”

“Serafina.” The way he says my name should come with a warning label. “Something smells incredible.”

“Thanks. I mean, it’s just lunch. Nothing fancy.”

Father settles into his chair, looking amused by my sudden inability to form complete sentences. “Adrian’s eating with us today. He’ll help me with some yard work afterward.”

Yard work. Adrian. Shirtless potential. My brain short-circuits.

“Great,” I manage. “Perfect. Yard work. Very… productive.”

Adrian’s smile could power a small city. “I’m looking forward to it.”

We sit down, and I serve the osso buco with saffron risotto and roasted vegetables. The kind of meal that takes hours and tastes like it was worth every minute.

“Serafina,” Father says after his first bite. “This is incredible. Where did you learn to cook like this?”

“My mo—” I catch myself. “Eva taught me. She said good Italian women feed people’s souls, not just their stomachs.”

“She was right,” Adrian says, and the way he’s looking at me makes my face heat up. “This tastes like love.”

Jesus Christ. How is eating sexy? How is he making eating sexy?

“It’s just food,” I mumble.

“It’s art,” he counters. “Edible art.”

Father’s watching this exchange like it’s better than cable television.

After lunch, Adrian and Father head outside for whatever mysterious yard work requires a man who looks like he bench presses luxury cars for fun. I grab my book and settle onto the patio with my oversized sunglasses, because subtlety is clearly my middle name.

The book is some romance novel I picked up at random, but honestly, who needs fiction when there’s Adrian Vasquez pulling weeds in my backyard?

He’s taken his shirt off. Of course he has. Because the universe clearly wants to test my commitment to staying focused on literally anything else.

Father goes inside to rest, leaving me alone with my book and my completely inappropriate thoughts about the hired help. Except he’s not hired help, is he? He works for Lord Ferdinand, which means he’s probably more dangerous than decorative.

Still. Those shoulders.

I’m pretending to read, grateful for the sunglasses hiding my wandering eyes, when footsteps approach. I grab the book tighter and stare at the pages like they contain the secrets of the universe.

“How’s the book?”

I don’t look up. “It’s good.”

“I can see that,” Adrian says, and there’s laughter in his voice. “Since you’re holding it upside down.”

I freeze. Actually freeze like a deer caught in headlights, except the headlights are attached to the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen and I’m apparently an idiot.

I pull off my sunglasses and look down at the book in my hands.

Upside down. Completely, obviously, embarrassingly upside down.

“Shit.”

“It’s a very advanced reading technique,” he says, settling onto the chair next to me. “I’m impressed.”

“I was just… thinking.”

“About the upside-down romance novel?”

“About very important things that require upside-down reading for proper comprehension.”

“Naturally.” His grin is pure evil. “What very important things?”

I flip the book right-side up and refuse to meet his eyes. “World peace. The economy. Whether I remembered to turn off the stove.”

“Those are very important things.”

“Shut up.”

“I’m being supportive of your upside-down literacy skills.”

“I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.”

“Miss Dorian,” a voice said behind us. I looked passed us and saw the courier coming to me with a stack of papers. “Mr. Verelli refused to sign the divorce papers.”

That son of a bitch.