Page 59 of Sasha’s Secret

“Sure. Text me the time and location, and I’ll be there.”

At the end of the conversation, Rocco needed time to think, and he thought best in the kitchen. He was making dinner for Sasha anyway, and it was about time he treated her to fresh pasta the way Nonna made it, along with her recipe for the best sauce in Sicily. All he needed was a well-stocked refrigerator and store cupboards to match. Was it really less than two weeks since he’d arrived here and been surprised to find there was even a pasta maker stashed in the kitchen?

Was it really even less time since he’d unknowingly started down the path to feeling about Sasha the way he’d never felt about another woman before?

However long it was, it didn't matter. His immediate priority was feeding his woman, and Sasha was due to walk through the door any moment now. She’d been working late to accommodate the couturier who was providing Linzi’s outfit for the awards ceremony, and who had returned for a final fitting, complete with shoes and other accessories. Sasha had laughed and sworn Rocco’s eyes glazed over when she started to explain the reason for the visit.

He liked it when she laughed. If he could make her laugh every day for the rest of their lives, he’d die a happy man.

Rocco pushed the longing to one side, along with the sour taste of all the reasons why it wasn’t going to happen. Instead of brooding about it, he concentrated on finishing off the sauce, and as he heard the door to the apartment open, the latest taste test confirmed it was almost ready. One final touch and it would be perfect.

Arms snaked around his waist. “That smells delicious. Your nonna’s recipe?”

He lifted an arm so she could snuggle in beside him more comfortably. “Would you like to try it?”

“I want to say no, I’ll wait until we eat, but I don’t have enough willpower.”

Rocco selected a clean spoon, loaded it with a good sample of the meaty sauce, and offered it to Sasha. “Blow on it, it’s hot.”

She did, then took the spoon from him and tasted the spicy Italian deliciousness. “Mm, I think I’ve gone to heaven.” She peered into the bubbling saucepan. “What have you put in there?”

“I can’t tell you—if I do, I’ll have to kill you,” he deadpanned. “And if I don’t, Nonna will.”

“I’d love to meet her one day.”

The innocent comment slammed into him and formed an instant bond with his earlier musing. He couldn’t help but wonder what would happen if he took Sasha with him on a visit back home. Nonna would be over the moon and planning their wedding, but his father… Dario would be more difficult to deal with. He’d try again to convince Rocco to stay, but if Rocco were to take Sasha with him, she would be the very reason why he could never do that. She’d never want to spend the rest of her life with him at the winery, surrounded by his somewhat overbearing extended family, with Nonna just waiting for the day Sasha and he announced they were having a baby…

Grief at the loss of something he’d never had and never would have brought him emotionally to his knees.

“I’m sorry, did I say something wrong?”

Sasha’s uncertain question banished the shattered fragments of the impossible daydream. “No, not at all. Why don’t you grab a couple of beers, then we can eat? And you can tell me how the fashion thing went.”

Her body shook with laughter. “Really? You want me to go through the minutiae of matching heels and a clutch to an evening gown?”

“Hmm, let me think—maybe skip the tiny details and go for the big picture?” Doubtless there would be tiny details, lots of them, and he wouldn’t have a clue what ninety-nine percent of the conversation was about.

Sasha wrinkled her nose at him before ducking out from under his arm to get the beers. “Party pooper. I had to sit through it, I don’t see why you should get out of it, but for once, I’ll take pity on you. Long story short, she’s finally happy that the label she’s wearing will make all the front pages the day after. What are you doing?”

Rocco drizzled a little more of the pasta cooking water into the sauce from the ladle. “What? You don’t trust me? I’m half-Italian, you think I can’t cook pasta?”

He checked the sauce and tried another taste—perfetto. He dumped the water from the ladle, drained the pasta and added it to the sauce, stirring it in so it was all coated.

“You sure don’t cook it the way I do.”

“Then you are in for a treat. Sit down.”

He’d already laid the place settings on opposite sides of the counter. A rustic meal like this suited less formal surroundings, and he wanted to see Sasha’s face when she took her first proper bite of Nonna’s signature sauce—or a close approximation, at any rate. He served up a healthy portion in both bowls, topped each with the perfect amount of freshly grated parmesan, and carried them to where she was waiting.

In an effort not to look like a nervous schoolboy, he twirled his fork in the pasta ribbons, ensuring they were coated in the right amount of sauce. Sasha was doing the same thing, but where he paused before eating, she went straight for it.

He wasn’t expecting the squeal or the way her eyes widened. Then she closed her eyes and made a noise that almost sounded like a purr. Her food orgasm scored a direct hit on his dick. He shoved his own forkful of food into his mouth and chewed.

“That is amazing, I’ve never knew pasta could taste so good.” She twirled her fork again and took a second mouthful, with much the same reaction.

If she carried on like that, he was going to die of blue balls over a meal.

“You like it, then.”