Total pages in book: 94
Estimated words: 93347 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 467(@200wpm)___ 373(@250wpm)___ 311(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 93347 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 467(@200wpm)___ 373(@250wpm)___ 311(@300wpm)
I nodded, stirring the sizzling pork. “Exactly.”
She kept grating. And grating. “Is this enough yet?”
I barely glanced over. “No, keep grating.”
She huffed but obeyed.
“Another theory is that Roman trattoria owners made it for American soldiers after the war to satisfy their craving for bacon and eggs.”
“That sounds silly,” she muttered. “They could’ve just made the soldiers some scrambled eggs.”
I chuckled, reaching for a bowl to crack fresh eggs into. “My thoughts exactly. My favorite theory is that it was the signature dish of a secret society, also named the Carbonari.”
She paused mid-grate then shot me a look. “You would like that version.”
I smirked as I whisked the eggs. “It has a certain charm, doesn’t it?”
The water had reached a rolling boil. I tossed in a generous handful of salt before adding the pasta, then I stirred to keep it from sticking.
Sabrina stopped grating and flexed her fingers. “Now?”
I examined the pile of cheese. “That’ll do.”
Satisfied, she set the grater down and rubbed her hand, but I could see the curiosity in her eyes as she watched me cook.
I combined the frothy eggs with the finely grated Pecorino, forming a thick, creamy mixture.
I lifted a spoonful of the sauce and held it out to her. “Taste.”
She hesitated, her lips parting slightly before she leaned forward, wrapping them around the spoon. She hummed as she withdrew, her tongue flicking over her lower lip, then she licked the tip of her finger where a bit of sauce had dripped.
Hunger coiled in my gut.
“Okay,” she moaned softly. “That is good.”
“Fuck, woman. Keep moaning like that, and we won’t make it to dinner.”
Never in my life had I been jealous of a spoon.
“When do you add in the cream?”
I held my hand up, pinching my fingers. “Mamma mia. You Americans and your cream! There is no cream in Carbonara. And while I’m at it, there is also no cream in Alfredo sauce.”
Her eyebrows rose. “Seriously?”
“Yes. It is only good quality butter and cheese for Alfredo. You are supposed to use the starch of the pasta water for thickness. Not cream.”
She ran her tongue over her lower lip. “That’s funny. I thought you liked…cream.”
After picking up the wooden spoon, I gave it a quick wag in front of her. “Keep talking like that and I’m going to spank you with this.”
Fuck. There was something so undeniably alluring about her innocent seduction.
It was like watching an angel give a striptease.
I removed the pasta from the water, transferring it still dripping directly into the skillet with the crispy guanciale.
I killed the heat and poured the creamy Pecorino-egg mixture over the top, then I tossed it quickly to coat the pasta without scrambling the eggs.
The result was a luscious, velvety sauce that clung perfectly to every al dente strand.
Sabrina leaned forward, inhaling deeply. “Damn.”
I plated up two dishes and grabbed the wine. “Come.”
She lifted her brows. “Where?”
Ignoring her question, I led her past the formal dining room and deeper into the palazzo, through a set of double doors, and into a small yet elegant room filled with cozy furniture.
A fire crackled in a stone hearth, casting warm shadows over the rich leather armchairs and the slightly worn but inviting sofa.
I gestured toward it. “Sit.”
Sabrina hesitated before lowering herself onto the plush cushions, her fingers tracing the soft fabric. “What is this room?”
“My private drawing room.” I handed her a plate and a glass of wine. “We can eat in the formal dining room if you prefer.”
She looked around again then shook her head. “No. This is the first room that feels normal in this whole place.”
I sat beside her, close enough that our knees brushed.
After replenishing our wine, I twirled my fork into the pasta and took a bite.
She followed suit, lifting her fork and swirling it through the creamy, glistening strands. As soon as she took her first bite, her head fell back slightly, eyes fluttering shut as she let out another moan.
I shifted uncomfortably, my cock responding instantly.
Adjusting my jeans, I forced myself to focus. “So, what do you think of your first authentic Carbonara?”
She opened her eyes, her lips curving into a slow smirk. “Don’t quit your day job.”
I scoffed then reached out and tugged one of her curls, letting it slip between my fingers.
She swatted at my hand, laughing, and for a moment, the tension between us shifted, softening.
But beneath the lighthearted exchange, something simmered.
Something deeper.
As we fell into a comfortable silence, I watched her.
She was still mad. Still hurt.
But she was here.
And for tonight, that was enough.
But I knew better than to believe in peace.
This was only a lull in the storm, a fragile moment held together by the warmth of food and wine, by the illusion of normalcy.
Because no matter how much I wanted to keep her here, safe and tucked away in my world, the truth was that danger had already found her.