Changing Scenes (Changing Teams #2) (10 page)

Chapter Eighteen

Donnie

Let me tell you, life had just gotten real good.

I was standing at the kitchen counter, chopping onions and garlic, and Astrid was seated at the table, slicing potatoes with a mandolin. She was doing real good too; I didn’t see any specks of blood or fingernails in with the potatoes, which meant she was better at slicing than most of the sous chefs I’d had.

“You want it spicy, babe?” I asked over my shoulder.

“I like some heat,” she replied. “What are we making again?”

“Frittata.” I opened the freezer and grabbed some spinach; despite what I’d said last night I hardly ever cooked at home. I was throwing this breakfast together with some pantry staples and the contents of my freezer. And a few red pepper flakes.

“How spicy?” I dumped the spinach into a colander and ran cold water over it. “Like, tabasco spicy, or sriracha spicy?”

“How about Donato spicy?” Astrid’s arms went around my waist, then she kissed me between my shoulder blades. After making love we’d showered together, and while she’d put on a loose knit dress I was only in gym shorts. That’s right, I was barefoot and shirtless in the kitchen. My grandmother would have had a fit. The fact that Astrid wasn’t wearing anything under that dress was making it hard for me to chop the vegetables without losing my fingers.

“Did you finish the potatoes?” I asked, glancing over my shoulder. When she nodded, I continued, “Get them in the boiling water.”

“You’re a mean chef,” she said, but got the potatoes in the pot anyway.

“You should see me at work.” I chopped the spinach and beat my eggs; by the time that was done I figured the potatoes were ready for the next step. I delved into the freezer again and grabbed the ice tray, then I dumped the contents into a glass bowl. “Put some water in there, babe?”

“Why?” she asked.

“To stop the cooking process in the potatoes.”

Astrid added water to the bowl, then I fished out the potatoes and sent them swimming in the ice water. “Why are we stopping the cooking process?” she asked, peeking over my shoulder. “I don’t like raw potatoes.”

“They’ll cook the rest of the way in the oven,” I said as I drained the potatoes in a colander. “Promise.”

Astrid made a little huff noise, then she refilled her coffee and sat at the table. “How old are you?”

I glanced over my shoulder. “Twenty-nine. You?”

“Twenty-four. What’s your middle name?”

“Maybe I don’t have one. Trying to hack into my email?”

“Trying to learn about you.”

“Rafinha.”

“What—oh. I don’t think I’ve ever heard that name before.”

“It’s after my father, sort of. Means little Rafael.” I finished arranging the potatoes in the pan, then I poured in the egg, onion, and spinach mixture. “Want to help me grate some cheese?”

“When you offered me breakfast I didn’t know there’d be manual labor involved.” Astrid slid off the stool and stood in front of the pan. I grabbed a block of cheddar with one hand and the hand grater in the other, then I stood behind her. It was a tight fit, me grating over the pan while Astrid was between me and the counter, but I didn’t mind. I wouldn’t mind a lot of things if they involved Astrid’s body pressed against mine.

“You want to know how I learned to cook?” I asked.

“Tell me, Mr. Chef.”

“I learned in my grandmother’s kitchen,” I said. “I made everything with her, from big holiday dinners to baking cookies.”

“Were you were her little helper?” Astrid asked.

“Nah, just hungry. At Grandma’s if you want to eat, you work. Everyone helps with dinner.” I spread out the cheese, then I kissed the bend where Astrid’s neck met her shoulder. “Back up a sec, babe.” She did, and I grabbed the pan and set it in the oven. That accomplished, I went to the fridge, grabbed the orange juice, and poured myself a glass.

“What’s your middle name?” I asked.

“Alexandria,” she replied. “I’m Astrid Alexandria Janvier.”

“Pretty name for a pretty lady,” I said.

She snorted. That’s right, my gorgeous model girlfriend snorted. “I’m named after my grandmother.”

“Family’s important,” I said. “You close with your brother?”

“Not really,” she replied. “He’s too busy for me, what with his job. He’s a pediatrician.”

“Good job to have,” I said. “I’m really only close with my youngest sister, Amelia.”

“Is she the one with all the nieces and nephews?”

“She’s got a few,” I replied, pleased that she remembered.

“Are you their favorite uncle?” Astrid took the glass of juice from my hand and stepped into my arms. “Are their best days when Uncle Donnie drops by?”

“You know it, baby,” I said, then I kissed her. When we parted she tucked her head under my chin, and I pressed my face against her hair and just held her. For a minute, nothing existed but me and Astrid and the warm smells of the kitchen. Then reality poked me, and I blew out a breath.

“So, about this weekend,” I began.

“What about it?”

“This is the last time I can see you for a while.”

“Why?” Astrid leaned back and looked up at me, her green eyes wide like an animal in headlights. “Are you going somewhere?”

“Kind of.” I scooped her up and carried her into the living room, then I sat on the couch with her on my lap. “I’m working all next week, then I’m going home for Christmas.”

“Oh.” Her fingertips danced little patterns across my chest. “Who’s going to cook at the restaurant while you’re gone? Replacement chef?”

“Christa shuts down for the holidays,” I replied. “She won’t reopen until the Friday after New Year’s.”

“Oh. What about our weekly trip in the fishmobile?”

I grinned; seemed that my girl was going to miss me. I liked that. “We can still do that on Thursday. You like the fish market that much?”

“The market? No.” Then she tipped up her chin and kissed me. I kissed her back as I moved until she was flat on her back on the couch. My hands slid up her thighs and under her dress, moving it up her body until she was naked beneath me. I kissed her chin, then I worked my way down her neck and toward her breasts as I took my time getting to know her. Yeah, I’d gotten to know her pretty well in bed, and in the shower afterward, but I wanted to make sure I hadn’t missed anything.

When I reached her thighs I pushed them apart, and draped one of her legs over my shoulder. I kissed her sleek inner thigh, working my way toward her center. By the time I got there I was so hard I thought my cock would rip out of my shorts. I fisted myself, squeezing the base to keep myself from coming too quick.

“Donato,” she breathed. By now I knew that when she called me by my full name she was getting close. I sat up, and she gave me this bewildered look. “Where are you going?”

“Condom,” I said. We hadn’t used one in the shower earlier, and I had just enough Catholic guilt in me to be all torn up about it. But what’s done is done, and I was determined not to repeat my mistakes.

Astrid nodded, then her nose wrinkled. “Do you smell that?”

I smelled burnt eggs, swore, and ran into the kitchen, rescuing our frittata just in time. “Shit,” I muttered. “How long were we on the couch?”

“Around half an hour, according to the clock,” Astrid replied. “I thought head chefs didn’t burn food.”

“I never burn food,” I said. “Then again, at work I’m never distracted by a beautiful woman.”

“Oh, so it’s my fault?” she asked, her hand on her hip.

“You’re cute when you’re mad and naked,” I said. “And happy and naked.”

Astrid looked me up and down and laughed. I glanced down and saw what was so funny—my shorts were down around my hips, and my cock was standing at full attention. I laughed as I grabbed Astrid under her hips. She wrapped her legs around my waist, and I walked us back to the couch.

“Food’s getting cold,” she said as I dropped her onto the cushions.

“Let it.”

Chapter Nineteen

Astrid

Not surprisingly, Donnie was cooking again. This grandmother that had instilled such values in my Donato had apparently also taught him that food equaled affection. After the frittata we’d had for breakfast, he made a huge Caprese salad and bread—that’s right, he actually baked bread—for lunch, and now he was on to dessert. If he showed me much more affection I’d have to go up a size.

“You mean to tell me you just had puff pastry lying around waiting for you?” I asked.

“It was in the freezer,” he replied. He’d unrolled the dough and was cutting it into little circles. “Why so surprised? I got all sorts of ingredients around here.”

“Yeah, but pastry dough? That’s just crazy.” I set down my coffee mug, walked to the sink, and washed my hands. “Okay, kitchen manager, what do you want me to do?”

He put a carton of eggs and two bowls in front of me. “Separate the yolks for six eggs,” he instructed. “I don’t want to see any shells in my yolks,” he warned.

“Yes, sir.”

We went on like that, breaking eggs and measuring flour until Donnie’s little pastry creations were assembled and in the oven. Not wanting to risk burnt edges again, especially after what happened with the frittata, we stayed in the kitchen while they baked. He’d said they would take about twenty minutes, and that was plenty of time for us to get distracted.

After we’d stared out the window for a while, I teased, “You haven’t shown me much of Connecticut.”

“Maybe all the best parts are here,” he countered. “Seriously, babe, as states go this one doesn’t have much going on. Not like where I’m from in Mass, or New York.”

“Britt’s from Mass,” I murmured. “She always says she’d go back if she could.”

“What part is she from?”

“Western, I think.”

Donnie laughed through his nose. “That’s about as far from New Bedford as you can get.”

“I bet,” I mumbled. Donnie got up and searched through a cabinet while I stared at the table, my mind going in a million different directions. What if Britt really did go back to Massachusetts? Ever since she and Sam came back from Iowa with his inheritance, they’d been talking about opening a studio of their own. I knew as well as anyone how expensive real estate was in New York, and they’d already looked at land outside the city. Maybe they’d end up moving way outside.

“What’s wrong?”

I blinked, and saw Donnie staring at me, his brows lowered. “Nothing, why?”

“For a second there you were a million miles away.”

“I was just thinking,” I said.

Donnie grunted. “’Bout us?”

“Actually, about Britt and Sam,” I replied. “Sam wants to open his own photography studio. I was wondering where they’ll end up.”

“Are you going to model for him?” Donnie asked, giving me a look that was somewhere between worried and curious.

“Maybe,” I said. “If I do, want to come along?”

“Watch my beautiful girl pose? You know it.” The oven timer beeped, and Donnie took the pan from the oven and set his creations aside to cool.

“What are those called again?”

“
Pastel de nata
,” he replied. “Cinnamon, or powdered sugar?”

“Chef’s choice.”

He grinned, then he rummaged around his cabinets and produced a cinnamon stick and grater. While he dusted the pastries with cinnamon, he said, “There’s a bottle of Prosecco in the fridge. Grab it for me?”

“Sure,” I said. “Are we celebrating?”

“You bet we are. Corkscrew’s in the drawer by the sink.” His grating complete, Donnie plated the pastries while I uncorked the bottle. Once the bubbly was poured, we clinked glasses.

“To the best weekend I’ve had in years,” he said.

“It’s not over yet,” I said. He grinned again, so I kissed that mouth. He took my glass and set it on the counter.

“Well? You gonna try one?”

“I suppose.”

I picked up the pastry, which was a delicate flaky shell filled with bright yellow custard. I hesitantly bit into it, then my eyes rolled back in my head. It was rich and creamy and just sweet enough to be decadent. “My God in heaven, this is amazing.”

“You like it?”

“I love it.”

Donnie bit into his own pastry. “Grandma always says that food made with love always tastes better.”

“You don’t have some fancy Portuguese word for grandmother?”

“
Avózinha
.”

“
Avózinha
,” I repeated. “Pretty word.” I pushed around some pastry crumbs on my plate. “Are you going to help
Avózinha
cook Christmas dinner?”

“Course I will,” he replied. “She won’t let me eat otherwise.” Donnie reached across the table and took my hands. “And the second I get back, I’m going to see you.”

“The very second?” I teased.

“As soon as I can.” We stared at each other for a moment, then he released me and shook his head. “Look at me, getting all serious. The weekend’s not even over yet.”

“And we still have all these pastries to eat,” I said. “Wouldn’t want them to go bad.”

“What about you?” Donnie asked. “Will you help cook for the holidays?”

“Cook? My family? It’s a wonder I didn’t starve to death as a child.” I picked up my pastry only to set it down; somehow it wasn’t as appealing any more. “Every year, my father and brother try to outdo themselves by booking the fanciest, trendiest restaurant for dinner.”

Donnie frowned. “You go
out
for Christmas dinner?”

“And Easter, and New Year’s, birthdays, promotions…you name it, my family pays someone else to do it.”

“Birthdays?” he squawked. “You mean you’ve never had a homemade birthday cake?”

“Not a one.”

Donnie got up and started going through the cabinets of endless kitchen tools again; that man had so many gadgets he was probably on an FBI watch list. When he emerged he was holding a box of matches and a small white candle.

“What’s that for?” I asked. “Gonna dim the lights, get your romance on?”

“Maybe later.” He rinsed off the candle and dried it, then he stuck it in my pastry and lit it. “Happy birthday, babe.”

“It’s not my birthday,” I said, my eyes welling up. It was a stupid thing to get worked up over, just a stupid candle stuck in my dessert. It was quite possibly the nicest thing anyone had ever done for me.

“Hey, now.” Donnie grazed his thumb across my cheekbone, catching a tear. “If I wanted to make you cry, I would have said you have a big butt.”

“Jerk,” I said, swatting his arm. He ducked out of the way and grabbed my hand.

“Come on, make a wish,” he said. “But don’t tell me what it is. Telling is bad luck.”

I squeezed my eyes shut and wished for the one thing I wanted more than anything, then I blew out the candle. For the first time in a long time, I didn’t wish for a zero credit card balance.