Chapter 23: Her Own Kitchen

I had painted the apartment in March, a warm white, and the dust sheets were gone.

There was a lamp now, and a bed with a green quilt Pina's grandmother had stitched.

I locked the door behind us and put my back against it.

Gaetano stood in the middle of my kitchen with his coat still on.

He looked at the cups I had bought, the plant on the sill, the two chairs.

"You made this," he said.

"Yes."

"It's yours."

"Entirely."

He took off his coat and hung it over a chair, carefully.

Then he crossed the floor, and I did not wait for him.

I caught his tie in my fist and pulled his mouth down to mine.

He made a sound I felt in my knees.

He kissed me slowly this time, and thoroughly, with his hands spread wide on my back.

There was no roof, no wind, no hurry.

I had four years of dinners and meetings and careful handshakes to make up for.

"Take it off," I said, against his jaw.

"The tie?"

"All of it."

His hands went to his collar. I stopped them, and did it myself.

I undid each button slowly, so that I could watch his chest rise under my fingers.

He was broad and brown, with a scar along one forearm.

When I pressed my mouth to his collarbone, I tasted salt.

"Marisa."

"Say it again."

"Marisa," he said roughly. "Marisa."

I pushed the shirt off his shoulders.

He unzipped my dress, one long careful pull, and it fell to the floor around my feet.

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