A White Coat Is My Closet (27 page)

As we neared the elevator, he dropped my hand to pull his keys out of his pocket. I was able to stand back and look at him while he was scrutinizing the ring to select the appropriate key. He was wearing a long-sleeved cotton shirt, meticulously pressed but unbuttoned far enough to offer an unobstructed glimpse of his muscular chest. Underneath the shirt I could see a gold chain with a matching gold crucifix. His jeans were designer but casual, and he wore leather shoes without socks. The entire ensemble screamed “stylish European,” and I suspected that he had pulled it together with little consideration. I, on the other hand, had again agonized over what to wear. I always found opening my closet to be a depressing endeavor. My wardrobe consisted either of hospital clothes or gym attire. I thought it was completely void of anything that could fall into the “dress to impress” category. I reminded myself with a sigh that not only was it time to go shopping, but I’d better bring along a consultant. I might have been gay, but I somehow had missed out on that shopping gene.

We exited the elevator and stepped onto an outdoor corridor with a railing overlooking the complex courtyard. The door to his condo was at the very end, so he had a corner unit. We walked side by side until we reached the door, then he stepped back and motioned me forward. “Go on in. The door’s unlocked.”

I reached for the knob and pushed the door open. Before I even crossed the threshold I was struck with the impression that I had stumbled into a beautifully decorated Italian villa. Soft music filled the air, amazing smells overwhelmed my senses, and my gaze was drawn to beautifully situated furniture and walls covered with incredible paintings.

I sensed Sergio was observing my reaction, but I couldn’t disguise how impressed I was with the room’s beauty. “Wow, this is amazing.”

I walked in and swept my gaze over the room. One of the first things to stand out was the fact that the main wall was painted two different colors, separated by a diagonal line that stretched from the floor of one corner to the ceiling of the other. The lower half was painted a light seafoam green, and the upper half was a soft peach. Had someone tried to describe the wall to me, I probably would have envisioned something aesthetically unattractive, but overall, the effect was both elegant and appealing. In addition, almost the entire wall was covered by beautifully framed paintings. Individually, each was spectacular, but when seen collectively, the wall became a collage of color. The furniture was equally impressive. Each piece looked comfortable, was beautifully crafted, and fit perfectly in the decorative scheme. Finally, each of the objects that covered the coffee tables and shelves against the wall added wonderful artistic touches.

I walked slowly into the room and admired each of the paintings. “These are fantastic. You’ve apparently been collecting them for a long time and either have an inside scoop where to shop, or you’ve robbed some pretty high-end galleries.” I stood back and admired one that I especially liked. “This one is particularly unique.” I turned and offered him a genuinely approving smile. “They’re beautiful.”

Sergio smiled as well, but I detected a subtle blush creep across his cheeks. “While it’s true I’ve been collecting them a long time, I haven’t had to do any shopping. They’re originals. I painted them. I told you when I met you at the pool that I liked to pretend that I was an artist.”

My mouth dropped open, and I turned back to stare at the paintings incredulously. “These are amazing, Sergio. When you told me you one day hoped to be a painter, I had no idea you were so talented. These paintings really are incredible.” I looked back at him. “The color, depth, and detail on these canvases blow my mind. These are more than professional—they’re friggin’ masterpieces.”

I recognized that my compliments were a little effusive, but they were honest. Sure, I would have wanted Sergio to feel flattered, but in this case, none of my comments were the least bit embellished. I genuinely thought his paintings were fantastic.

Sergio walked over to me and swept me into a warm embrace. “You’re probably exaggerating a ton, but I appreciate the compliment. One of these days I hope my work will hang somewhere other than on the walls of my condo.” He kept one arm around my shoulder, turned to survey his paintings with a critical eye, and then turned back to me. “I’m proud of some of them, but others are a little amateurish.” He held my gaze. “But I’m happy you like them.” He bent forward and kissed me again. This kiss was unhurried, and I was quickly lost in its intensity. When he drew back he was smiling. “I’d better take that bottle of wine out of your hands before I kiss you again. One slip and you might accidently break it over my head.”

I blushed and handed the bottle over to him so he could read the label. “Chianti. The guy in the wine store assured me it was a good one. Figured I couldn’t lose by bringing a good bottle of Chianti to a home-cooked Italian meal. Might not score any points for originality, but I hope to maintain solid standing in the Roman-tradition category.”

Sergio took the bottle and motioned me into the kitchen. “Come in here while I finish cooking. Everything is almost ready.” He opened one of the drawers, reached in, and pulled out a corkscrew. “You want to open this? Or would the job be better left to the hands of a professional?”

I grabbed both the bottle of wine and the corkscrew from him and tried my best to look indignant. “Hey, I might have neglected to mention that I supported myself through undergrad by waiting tables. I might not wear the apron anymore, but I work diligently to maintain my skills. I’ve been known to drink a whole bottle of wine by myself just to prove that I can still open it like an expert.” He knew I was joking, and I laughed as I cut the foil away from the top of the bottle. “Now I’m under a lot of pressure not to break the cork.”

“If you can’t open a bottle of wine without breaking the cork, I’m definitely changing doctors. There’s no way I’d trust you with a scalpel if you can’t handle a corkscrew.”

“First of all, we already discussed this. You’re a little out of my age range. Secondly, because I’m a pediatrician and not a surgeon, they refuse to allow me to operate, so you don’t have to worry. No one trusts me with a scalpel.”

Sergio walked over to the oven, opened it wide enough to peek over the door, then nodded. “Go ahead and pour the wine. Wine glasses are on the table. After these cool a bit, we’ll start with appetizers.”

I had been so intent on admiring Sergio’s paintings I had paid little attention to the dining area. The table was beautifully set with a white linen tablecloth, colorful Italian ceramic plates, and fresh-cut flowers in shades that complemented the dishes perfectly. “Wow,” I exclaimed. “You went all out. This table looks like it’s been set for royalty.”

Sergio laughed. “No, just a couple of queens.”

Ironically, the pun put me at ease. I appreciated that Sergio could poke fun at himself and at his sexual orientation. He really was completely comfortable with himself. Of course, calling oneself a queen when you reeked of masculinity was probably pretty easy. Had it been my joke, I would have immediately become so self-conscious that anyone I was speaking to would immediately assume I was girlish. Would I ever succeed in stifling the inner voice in my head that maintained a perpetual derogatory critique?

I intentionally shook my head to quiet the internal dialogue. I refused to let any insecurities ruin the promise of an incredible evening. “What are we having? It smells delicious.”

“Ah, I hope you’re hungry. It’s a traditional five-course Italian meal.” He smiled over at me. “With a few of my own personal twists. I had to improvise a little, because I wanted you to taste some of my favorites. We’ll start with asparagus wrapped in crispy prosciutto, followed by a serving of homemade fagioli soup. I used my grandmother’s recipe to make the soup.” He tried to look humble, but it was obvious he was bursting with pride. “Then, even though it deviates a little from a traditional third course, because I made my own crust, you’ll get to sample a few slices of pizza. I made a small pizza rustica with Sicilian sausage.” Even as he was speaking, he again opened the oven and pulled out a piping hot bubbling pizza. He smiled over his shoulder at me as he transferred it from a thin baking sheet to the surface of a large wooden cutting board to cool.

“Then, in keeping with a more authentic fourth course, we’ll have a serving of pasta.” He lifted the lid off a pot on the stove to confirm that the water had reached a rolling boil. “Though I won’t cook the pasta until just before we’re ready to eat it. It has to be fresh or it doesn’t taste as good.” He moved around the kitchen, stirring some pots and lowering the flames under others. When he’d assured himself the cooking process was proceeding according to plan, he again focused his attention on me. “Our main course will be veal scaloppini in a portobello mushroom sauce.” The smile crept back across his face. “It’s a family favorite, and I haven’t eaten it since the last time I visited Rome. As for dessert? Never let it be said that I’m not a man of my word.” He crossed the kitchen, opened the door of the freezer, pulled about a plan white container, and slowly opened the lid. “Homemade gelato.” He beamed. “Our vendor came by the restaurant yesterday and gave me a carton of pistachio. Now, in addition to making good on my promise to you, we have the perfect finale to what I hope will be a great dinner.”

I was so overwhelmed I didn’t trust my mouth to speak. Instead, I crossed the kitchen and kissed Sergio passionately on the lips. I really was touched. I couldn’t believe he would go to such tremendous lengths for no reason other than to please me. My mind was having trouble connecting the pieces. Sergio could have his pick of almost anyone. Given his physique, model good looks, and sexy accent, he would be a prize catch on even the most exclusive list. Why was he wasting his time with me?

I threw myself more deeply into the kiss, as much because I enjoyed it as to prove to myself that I really was in Sergio’s arms and to push the negative voices out of my head. For whatever reason, I was there. An incredible dinner was waiting, Sergio was holding me possessively, and the night had the potential for being damn near perfect. If I woke up the next day to find that the whole experience had just been one big cosmic hoax, so be it. For now, I would live in the moment, and frankly, it was hard to imagine that either time or eternity could ever provide a better one.

When we broke the kiss, Sergio looked at me happily. “I take it that means you approve of the menu?”

Just seeing his warm smile focused directly on me succeeded in pushing the majority of my insecurities right out of my head. “Oh yeah, I approve.” I planted one additional quick kiss on his lips, then leaned back to look at him. “But I have a confession to make. At the risk of sounding like I’m coming on too strong, I’m being perfectly honest when I say that, if it meant being able to share it with you, I would have been content with Chinese takeout.” I lifted my hands to cradle his head and make him look me directly in the eye. “But authentic Italian is way better.” I smiled warmly and pulled him forward so our foreheads touched. “Way better. In fact, I feel guilty that you’re spoiling me.”

He laughed and turned back to the stove. “You better taste it before you accuse me of spoiling you. If it’s awful, you’ll be begging for Chinese takeout.”

I walked up behind him and wrapped my arms around his waist as he pushed a spoon around in the pasta sauce. “I’ll take my chances. It smells delicious. Just the aroma is making me light-headed.” I kissed the side of his neck and chuckled. “Or maybe it’s you that makes me feel that way.”

“Or, more likely,” he said, laughing, “you’re light-headed from hunger. Sit down.” He guided me over to my chair. “Dinner is ready.” He took the napkin off my plate, unfolded it, and laid it on my lap. “This is more than just a meal; it’s an experience. Your only job is to enjoy. I’ll handle the rest.”

“My only job is to enjoy? I think the spoiling has already begun.”

He put the asparagus down in front of me. It was beautifully plated. A couple sprigs of parsley tucked carefully under the ends of the asparagus supported a wedge of lemon, and the smell of warm prosciutto came wafting through the air. I gasped softly. “Wow, if I didn’t know better, I’d say you did this professionally.” I smiled up at him and gave his hand a gentle squeeze before he circled to the other side of the table. “Presentation, presentation. If it tastes as good as it looks, I’d say you’ve found yourself a winner.”

Sergio sat down across from me. He tried to sound modest but looked genuinely pleased. “This is just to whet your appetite. A little something to prepare your stomach for the avalanche of food to follow.” He raised his glass of wine in a toast. “Bon appétit.”

I lifted my glass as well. “Bon appétit. Thank you for inviting me and for going above and beyond in preparing such an incredible meal.” We touched the edges of our glasses together, and I smiled. “And here’s to our second date. May there be many more.” I lifted my glass a little higher. “God save the queens.”

Sergio had to pull his glass quickly away from his mouth to prevent himself from spitting wine across the table as he started to laugh. “This might be our last date if you make me choke to death.” He smiled at me warmly and again lifted his glass in the air. “Definitely. To more dates.” He winked, then took a sip. He held the wine in his mouth briefly before swallowing, then studied it swirling around in his glass. “The wine-store guy gave you a solid recommendation. This is a good Chianti.”

I heard a soft crunch as I cut through the prosciutto and into the asparagus. I lifted the fork to my mouth, slid the bite of food in, and chewed appreciatively. “Delicious. I could make a meal just of this. Is there anything in the world that doesn’t taste better with bacon?”

“Right! I’ve heard of some people pairing it with chocolate.”

“Okay, let me ask another question: Is there anything in this world that doesn’t taste better with chocolate?” I smiled and shrugged, as if stating the obvious. “Two of the best flavors on the planet. It just stands to reason that they’d taste good together.”