A Taste of You (8 page)

Now, where was he?
Carlo checked his partner’s wall where there were multiple pics uploaded from a farmer’s market in, whoa, Connecticut? Really, Garrett? You had to leave the entire state?

Maybe they were both really, really broken, but he found it oddly flattering that Garrett had bolted that fast and that far after their night together.

He clicked “like” next to the oregano so Garrett would know that he knew where he was and wasn’t mad. Then he settled back to read the news and finish his coffee.

Eventually he went back inside and traded the tablet for his laptop. Keeping track of Ransom and Garrett’s other interests was more than a full-time job. Fortunately, he didn’t have to go into the office for all of it. He spent the next few hours catching up on cost projections, paying invoices, and clearing out his email.

He was almost done when his phone hummed a text notification. He picked it up and checked it absently.

I’m in.

Joey. His new opportunities.

Had things changed?

He didn’t know.
He didn’t know
.

He wanted to believe everything had changed, but he wasn’t that stupid. He didn’t know what Garrett’s motivation had been last night. They had known each other ten years, and Garrett had never, even in jest, made a pass at him before.

So. Something had changed, but he didn’t know what. Garrett was casual about sex. In his mind, nothing may have changed at all.

Suddenly restless, he snapped his laptop closed. He went back out to the balcony to check on his herbs. The routine was soothing. Check the moisture levels. Water. Pinch off a few leaves to prevent bolting and encourage the plants to bush.

What had changed? He let the question hang in the back of his mind, trying not to force the answer he wanted. By the time he finished with his garden, he had found the answer.

Nothing.

Okay, something. He touched the bite on his shoulder that definitely had not been there this time yesterday.

But for this thing with Joey….The emotional roller coaster Carlo had been on since Garrett landed back in the city had convinced him of one thing, at least. He needed something of his own, no matter where things went with Garrett. He loved Garrett, but he needed to have things he did for himself. And if things went south with Garrett, he needed a fallback, a place he could land to lick his wounds and re-build his life.

Chapter Seven

“Why can’t I cook?” Garrett prowled around the kitchen, looking for some way to occupy himself while Carlo cooked and he didn’t.

“Nonna says you need a day off. She wants you to bring wine and relax. You did get wine, right?” Carlo moved the sheet of pasta draped over one hand back into the rollers.

“How am I supposed to bring wine when I don’t know what’s on the menu?”

While Carlo was occupied with the pasta, Garrett opened the top of the food processor on the counter behind him and snuck a taste of the filling. It was good. Chicken, pancetta, mortadella, and the cheese was….

“I know what you’re doing back there.”

Busted. He swallowed guiltily.

“Bring that over here where I can see you. I don’t trust you not to fuck with it, and Nonna will know if it’s not the way she taught me.”

“You do it the same way every time?”

“Every time, Sweets. It’s a family thing. Tradition.”

“Even if someone could improve it?”

“Someone, huh? The family wouldn’t see it as an improvement, babe. If you want to invent something new, it will be your thing, not the tortellini Nonna learned from her grandmother.”

“So I could have brought something else?”

“Maybe next time. You’re off the clock today, Nonna’s orders.”

“Fine.” He knew it sounded petulant. Dinner was potluck. Everyone would bring something except him. The chef. He got to bring wine. Why should he care?

But he did. The Rotolos had adopted him from the first time Carlo had brought him home. He saw more of them than he did his own family. And now he and Carlo were…something. It was Nonna’s eightieth birthday. He would have made her something special.

“We should have put a crew together and catered this.”

Carlo just sighed, and, okay, even Garrett knew that wouldn’t have been right.

“It’s driving you nuts, isn’t it, babe?”

“No.”

“Liar. Come on, you can help me fill these.”

“Don’t patronize me. I got the wine. You can fill them yourself.”

But he got up anyway, globbed the filling into a pastry bag, and began piping it onto the circles of pasta Carlo was cutting out. What would he have made for Nonna? He toyed with the idea while he put away the pastry bag and began folding the dumplings. Something special. Something with Italian roots, to honor her heritage, but an elevated dish. Something beautiful that only he could make. Something no one who attended her birthday would ever forget. But no matter how hard he tried, nothing he thought of seemed right.

“Easy, there.” Carlo’s voice cut into his thoughts.

He looked down at the piece of tortellini he was folding. The edges were mangled and mashed. Ugly. Inedible. He set it to the side and picked up another piece. His eye fell on the rows already finished and set aside.

“Mine are different than yours.”

“Yeah, you got your own little style going on there.” Carlo didn’t stop working, fingers in the bowl of water between them, a swipe around the edge of the pasta round, fold, press, twist.

Garrett watched for a minute then copied his movements carefully. Closer. He set the piece next to the mangled one and tried again, slower this time.

Still not exactly the same.

Again. Slower.

He was starting to panic, which was stupid. It was pasta. Anyone could do it. He could do it in his sleep.

Except Nonna wanted exactly the pasta Carlo was making, and Garrett’s pieces were different. And for some reason, despite the fact that he had three bloody Michelin stars, it seemed very important that he live up to an old lady’s pasta expectations rather than his own.

He picked up the next piece. He couldn’t make his fingers move.
Shitshitshit. Stupid.

“You’re over-thinking this, Sweets.”

Carlo’s arms came around him, warm and comforting, and he took the pasta out of Garrett’s hands.

“See, here’s how I do it.” He folded it slowly. “But the way you do it is good, too. They don’t all have to be identical.”

“I want them to be the same.”

“Okay, don’t fret. You try it.”

The weight of Carlo’s chin on his shoulder should have distracted him. Instead, it settled something in him. He picked up another piece and folded it.

“That one is closer. You said Nonna wanted it to be the same as she made it. I should be able to make them all like yours.”

“That wasn’t what I meant earlier. I just didn’t want you to change the recipe. You make pretty pasta, babe, stop worrying.” Carlo rubbed his check along Garrett’s and kissed the side of his mouth before he moved away. Then he picked up the row of discards and moved them to the semolina-covered baking sheet with the rest, the mangled one included.

“No, those aren’t—”

“They’re fine, Garrett. No one is going to be examining them that closely. They’re just going to eat them.”

They weren’t fine, but Carlo was already packing the tortellini away, carefully layered and covered with a damp cloth to keep them from drying out.

“We should have made it there. It would be fresher.”

“The kitchen there is going to be a madhouse. We’ll be lucky to get a free burner to cook them. Grab the
brodo
out of the fridge, will you? We need to get a move on.”

Obviously his opinions meant nothing today. Nonna’s birthday, and they were bringing irregular pasta and wine not properly selected for each dish. He gave up and helped Carlo get everything packed.

And that was the end of that until it was time to tote everything downstairs to the waiting car.

“Garrett? What the hell is that?” Carlo was staring at the boxes stacked next to the door.

“The wine. I’m to bring wine, remember?”

“A few bottles. Not all the wine forever. Take three or four bottles out, and let’s go.”

“You’re kidding, right? I spent hours picking those out. Which ones am I supposed to leave?”

Carlo pinched the bridge of his nose. “Let me guess. They aren’t all the same?”

Garrett shook his head.

“A red and a white?”

Did he really think that? “There are going to be dozens of dishes. How could I be sure I brought the right ones? It’s Nonna’s
eightieth birthday
, Carlo.”

“Jesus, babe, you are something else. You know that, right?”

Garrett opened his mouth to argue. He had given in on the cooking and the ugly pasta, but he had definitely been assigned the task of bringing wine and he intended to make sure it was done properly and—

The indescribable taste of Carlo, more intoxicating than any wine, wiped all the arguments out of his head as Carlo kissed him thoroughly and none too gently.

“You’re going to make me crazy.” Carlo rested his forehead against Garrett’s. “It’s not fair that you get me so hard when you’re being such a pain in the ass.”

Garrett thought it was pretty bloody fair, considering he himself had developed midnight cravings for Italian. Not just midnight either. Carlo was pretty much all he thought about lately. He tilted his head so he could suck on the succulent flesh of Carlo’s bottom lip.

“Wanna be late?” Carlo’s hands were on Garrett’s ass. On his ass, under his jeans. How had that happened? And, yes, please. He desperately wanted to keep them there.

Carlo tilted his hips, rubbing himself against Garrett in a slow grind. And, yes, that was quite nice, too.

Garrett struggled to remember what he had been going to say.

“Birthday.” He shoved at Carlo. “Carlo, we have to go.”

“Really?” Carlo’s tongue delved into Garrett’s mouth again, distracting him.

Then Carlo stepped back, leaving Garrett disoriented and off balance.

“Garrett the punctual. Hell must be freezing over.” Despite the words, Carlo looked oddly pleased with himself. “Come on, let’s get packed up.”

“Everything?”

“Yes, all the wine, everything. You don’t think I’d make you leave it after you put so much effort into it?”

“I’m sorry I’m so much trouble.” He didn’t quite understand
why
doing something properly was considered trouble, but he knew he was a trial to Carlo.

“Hell, you know I love ya, babe.” Carlo balanced the container of pasta on top of one the cases of wine and headed out the door. “Come on. We don’t want to be late, remember?”

And, with getting all the wine and food downstairs and Garrett running back at the last minute because he had almost forgotten Nonna’s present, it took a while for those words to sink in.

I love ya, babe
. Garrett sat next to Carlo in the back of the car and felt himself go hot then cold. That was just a thing people said, right? Carlo hadn’t meant anything by it.

Garrett ignored the glow of warmth sparked by the idea of Carlo loving him. The ball of ice in his stomach was way bigger and spreading hungrily. Loving someone meant they could hurt you. Eventually screwing up this new thing they had was a given, but he didn’t want Carlo getting hurt when it happened. He didn’t want anything to hurt Carlo, ever because… He looked at the man sitting next to him.

I love you, too
.

The ball of ice finished up its meal of warm fuzzies and moved on to encase his whole body. Stupid to be so panicked. Of course he loved Carlo. Loving someone wasn’t the same as being
in love
. Being
in love
would be bad. Really bad. Garrett wasn’t the type of person who fell
in love
. It would be a disaster. So, he loved Carlo. As a friend.

And Carlo loved him. Because they were friends or…something.

Friends didn’t seem like the right word. Boyfriends? He shuddered, thinking of his endless stream of exes. Definitely not that. They had been sleeping together for almost a week. Did that change something? They hadn’t discussed it, which seemed normal to Garrett but not quite like Carlo.

“Carlo?”

“Yeah, babe?”

They had been banging each other for a week, and so far they were still friends. He probably should just keep his mouth shut and roll with it. “Are you sure the pasta will be okay?”

“Count on it, babe.”

****

“So,” Nonna said. “He ate.”

They were in Nonna’s kitchen. Carlo was drying the last of the dishes that hadn’t gone in the washer. Great Aunt Vera and Great Aunt Camilla, perpetual motion machines, were putting the dishes away, wiping counters, and sorting leftovers. The fridge had become a reverse clown car. Carlo had been sure nothing else could go in five dishes ago. Vera, unconcerned with the relative volume of plastic containers to appliance, kept opening the door and shoving them in.

“He did eat.” Carlo handed the final serving dish to Camilla and turned to face Nonna.

In honor of her birthday, Nonna had been persuaded not to participate in cleanup. Instead, she sat at the kitchen table and “supervised.”

“So, now he is home, it will get better.”

“I don’t know, Nonna. I’ve never seen him this bad. I’m worried about him.”

“This is the thing with the food?” Camilla asked. “Where he re-arranges everything?”

“Not just re-arranges.” Carlo searched for a way to explain. “Everything has to look just so, taste just so. Some days he won’t eat anything he hasn’t prepared himself.”

“But he eats? He doesn’t starve himself or make himself sick after?”

“He eats. Some days it isn’t so bad. I didn’t know how today would go, but he actually ate a good bit. And he didn’t break it all down and rebuild it like he usually does.”

“Reminds me of Uncle Aldo,” Vera broke in.

“Uncle Aldo and the windows.” Camilla nodded. “Goodness. I haven’t thought about him in ages. Poor Uncle Aldo.”