Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 76713 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 384(@200wpm)___ 307(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76713 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 384(@200wpm)___ 307(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
Then this stupidly handsome, sometimes obnoxious, but good at his core, man put down the bag, wiped his hands, and poured me a glass of red wine from a bottle he had breathing.
“Feel better after the bath?” he asked.
“I feel less numb,” I admitted. “I don’t know if better is the right word, though,” I said as I took the wine glass from him. “This food might make me feel better, though. Is that garlic bread?”
“No, sweet cheeks, that is cheesy garlic bread,” he said, giving me a smirk when a very suggestive-sounding moan escaped me.
“Is Aurelio coming?” I asked, only seeing two glasses.
“No. He wanted to get some rest.”
“Is he okay?” I asked. “His arm…”
“He’s fine. I’m sure he treated it before he decided to get some sleep.”
“Maybe we should take him a plate,” I said, looking at the food he had spread out. There was more than enough.
“Baby, I think the only mom more obsessed with cooking than mine is Aurelio’s mom. Trust me, he’s had stuffed shells before. Better ones. He isn’t missing out. In our world, ordering takeout is more of a treat than homemade since homemade is the standard.”
“In that case, I am happy to have extra,” I told him as he picked up his bag again and got back to work.
“Do you enjoy cooking?” I asked.
“It’s kind of meditative,” he said, shrugging. “Gives you something to physically do while you think shit through.”
“I feel that way about baking,” I told him. “What shit are you thinking through?” I asked.
“The fact that it sounds like you haven’t had a proper Thanksgiving in years.”
“You’re… not wrong. I vaguely remember some when my parents were still together, but the cooking was usually overshadowed by their arguing, so that’s what I remember best. For the past few years, I’ve been volunteering on Thanksgiving. Save for last year.”
“Why not? Did you have plans?”
“They turned me away,” I admitted. “People tend to get more charitable around the holidays. They had more volunteers than they needed.”
“What’d you do instead?” I asked.
“Went to the shop and baked. Black Friday is usually a huge day for coffee and fast foods, so I got prepared ahead of time. Don’t give me that look,” I said when his eyes went sad.
“Sorry,” he said, shaking his head.
“What was your last Thanksgiving like?”
“Hectic,” he admitted. “Loud. Packed,” he said. “With a ridiculous amount of food.”
“Okay, I’m curious. What does an Italian Thanksgiving look like? Is it all pasta dishes and stuff? Or is it more traditional?”
“It’s a mix. We have the turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes, yams, all that shit. But because my mom and aunts are who they are, we also have caprese, antipasti, meatballs, and lasagne.”
“There must be leftovers for a week.”
“They send us home with platters of everything and then there’s still leftovers,” he agreed.
I didn’t mean to be envious right then.
But I couldn’t help but imagine what it would be like to sit down at a giant table loaded down with food prepared with care from people who loved you.
A dozen conversations going on at once, playful arguing, kids running around being crazy, a football game on in the other room. Sitting down after cleaning up the meal to have pies and coffee.
It sounded amazing.
“You have a sister, right?” I asked, trying to remember the complicated Grassi family tree.
“Yeah. Valley. Valentina,” he clarified.
“Is she like your mom and aunts? With the cooking?”
“She cooks. I don’t think she’s fully at their level yet, but I figure maybe that comes when you have a family you really enjoy cooking for. That’s what my mom says anyway, that she really gets a lot of joy out of watching us enjoy the food she made for us.”
“I can see that,” I agreed. It wasn’t exactly the same, but I loved watching people enjoy the cookies or sweets I baked.
“Do you want a family?” I asked before I could think better of it.
“Yes,” he answered immediately, surprising me. No hedging. No Maybe if I meet the right woman. “What?” he asked.
“You’re so sure,” I said.
“Yeah. I don’t know if it’s because I come from a family that is very… family-oriented or what, but I’ve always known I wanted my own. Wife. Kids. The whole thing. I think all my brothers and cousins feel the same.”
“It’s kind of refreshing how sure you are about it,” I said.
“You’re not?”
“I honestly just haven’t thought much about it. It never seemed likely. I haven’t exactly had successful relationships in the past.”
“I haven’t had any relationships in the past, but that doesn’t change what I know I want,” August said, shrugging as he turned to mix the sauce on the stove that I was reasonably sure he’d made from scratch.
“I guess I always liked the idea of having a kid. Doing it right, y’know? Home-cooked meals. Big holiday meals. No bitterness and arguing with the kid’s father. What?” I asked at his pinched brows.