The Marriage Trap

Chapter Four

More than six feet of irritated man loomed before her. Though he didn’t touch her, her body stilled as if restrained. His usual relaxed charm disappeared and a dangerous aura crackled in the air. She’d seriously pissed him off. Unfortunately, instead of fear, excitement tingled along her nerve endings. Damn, what would he be like in bed? Naked and muscled and . . . demanding.

Usually, she stayed far away from men who had any dominance or control tendencies, but Michael didn’t scare her. At least, not in a bad way. Her lips parted in an unconscious invitation for him to take it a step further. Onyx eyes sharpened on her mouth and darkened. She ached to know how he tasted. Craved to experience his tongue claiming her mouth, his hips slamming against hers, without forcing her to make the choice.

A beat passed. Another.

The words slipped out of her mouth before she caught them. “What’s the matter, Count? Cat got your tongue?”

He turned away and a stream of colorful curses shot in the air. Her body relaxed from his retreat, but his threat caused a shiver to work down her spine. She ignored the flare of disappointment from a missed opportunity.

“Be careful, cara. Toying with me may be fun, but eventually I will tire and force your hand.”

Maggie snorted. “You sound like those erotic romances I love. But I’m no sub, baby, and you’re not my dom. My gamble paid off. I figured I’d challenge your family from the start so I don’t have to play a role I’m not comfortable with. Eventually they’d realize I’m not a great pleaser or traditional Italian wife.” She grinned. “Your mom’s a pisser.”

“She’s ill, so please be careful.”

“Oh, no, Michael. What’s wrong with her?”

He gave a deep sigh and rubbed his hands over his face. “Besides an arthritic knee, her heart is delicate. She needs to watch her stress and activity, so I intend to humor her this visit.” His brows lowered. “And I hope you will, too.”

“I can play nice for a week.”

“I’ll believe it when I see it,” he murmured. “Be sure you don’t try to deck me when I kiss you.” He looked thoughtful, and Maggie almost gulped with unease. “In fact, perhaps I should kiss you right here. Right now. For practice, of course.”

She hissed like a ticked-off snake. “I can manage not to jump when a man touches me.”

“I’m not convinced.” He stalked over and invaded her personal space. The heat of his skin pulled her in. “One slipup and this charade ends. I can’t afford it. Especially when a simple kiss beforehand may make the difference.”

“I’m real good at faking it.” She tossed him a mocking smile. The delicious scents of musk and man beckoned her to steal a sample. Her heart tripped at the thought of him calling her bluff, which only made her more obnoxious. “No one will ever know I’m not interested in kissing you. No need to put ourselves through a practice run.”

He studied her in silence and she began to relax. “Let’s test the theory, shall we?”

He grasped her shoulders and yanked her forward. She collided with a rock of carved muscle, and her arms came up in automatic protest to push against his chest. When she hit resistance, her fingers gripped the soft material of his T-shirt. His feet straddled hers and kept her off balance. His lips stopped inches from her own.

“Take your hands off of me.” Sweat beaded her brow. Oh, God, what if she melted and looked like an idiot? What if she moaned when those full lips slid over hers? She could not respond. She could not respond. She could not—

“What are you so nervous about?” Humor danced in his eyes. “You’ve done this a million times, remember?”

“I don’t like to be manhandled,” she shot back.

His lip quirked. He lowered his voice to a husky purr that promised her pure bodily pleasure. “Maybe you haven’t had the right man handling you.”

“Give me a break. Do women really fall for that line? Because if they do, they must come from the land of the stupid. Take your hands—”

His lips covered hers.

His warm, soft mouth stopped the angry flow of words and distracted her from any other thought she’d ever had except how this man kissed.

Her senses short-circuited. She liked kissing and had experienced her fair share, but with Michael everything seemed different. His body heat reminded her of a werewolf in those Twilight films she secretly loved. His tongue probed the seam of her lips, then dove in without apology. She could have fought him if he got greedy; instead, the slide of his tongue seduced and asked for her to come and play. His stubble rubbed the sensitive curve of her jaw. His hips slanted against hers as his arms came down and cupped her rear, bringing her up to meet the hard bulge between his thighs.

She moaned. He caught it and pressed a bit deeper, and Maggie opened her mouth and gave in.

He plundered and commanded in complete thrusts, reminding her of how he’d claim her body if she gave him a chance. She tried to surface and gain control of the kiss, but her mind crumbled and her body sang. He murmured her name, and her legs got shaky as she held on to him for dear life and kissed him back.

How long had passed? Minutes? An hour? He finally pulled away, slowly, as if he regretted ever breaking the contact. She hated herself in that moment. Instead of slapping him away, or coming up with a smart-aleck comment, she just stared helplessly. Her tongue ran over her swollen lower lip.

He groaned. Uneven breaths lifted his chest. “You’re right,” he said softly. “You fake it really well.”

She jerked back and prayed her cheeks didn’t look flushed. She forced out the words. “Told you.”

He turned and stacked the luggage in the corner of the room and opened the closet door. “There’s plenty of space for both of us. This will be our room for the week.”

Reality crashed over her. Rich details made the room comfortable yet masculine, from the royal-blue throw rugs, cherrywood furniture, and lack of frilly clutter. A deep red quilt finished off the polished look of the bed that took up the center of the room. Maggie stared at the bed, a bit smaller than what she expected, and realized there was no sofa or cushy rug. The knowledge they’d be squished together rattled her nerves. Dear God, she’d just melted from a lousy kiss. What if she rolled over in her sleep? What if her fingers accidentally hit one of those sleek pec muscles and she made a fool out of herself?

Irritation bit at her from the ridiculous situation so she did what she learned best. Go on the attack first. “Nice bed.”

He cleared his throat. “Is this acceptable? If not, I can always put a blanket on the floor.”

She rolled her eyes. “I’m a big girl, Count, just stay on your side. I’ll take the left.”

“As you wish.”

“You don’t snore, do you?”

A twinkle of amusement glinted in his eyes. “I’ve never had anyone complain before.”

“Well, I’ll let you know for future reference if they’re lying.”

He gestured toward the bathroom and glass doors that led to a balcony. “Why don’t you take some time to freshen up and come downstairs when you’re ready? I’ll show you the property and the rest of the house then. When is your Milan shoot?”

“Tomorrow. I’ll be there most of the day.”

“Very well. I’ll meet you there in the afternoon so we can file our Atto Notorio and Nulla Osta at the consulate’s office. I’ve already arranged for witnesses. Don’t forget to bring all your papers—I had to pull some strings so Mama wouldn’t suspect we wish any delay.”

Maggie swallowed a gulp. “I thought you said it was impossible to get a priest to marry us?”

“It is quite difficult to get a priest to perform a ceremony last minute, and Mama will only accept this type of wedding. There’s no way they can be approved in a week.”

“Okay.”

They stared at each other for a few moments in silence. He shifted his weight, and the fabric of his jeans strained against the bulge dead center. His black T-shirt did nothing to hide the breadth of his shoulders and chest. Or the corded, sinewy length of his arms covered with dark hair. Her traitorous body responded to his confidence as heat burned between her thighs and her nipples tightened to achy points.

When was the last time she’d been so turned on by a man? Maybe it was the chase. Women always craved men who were off-limits. Especially if they obviously had it bad for another woman.

Right?

“Maggie? Are you okay?”

She shook off the reaction and blamed it on jet lag. “Sure. I’m going to shower. I’ll meet you downstairs.”

He nodded and shut the door behind him.

Maggie groaned and quickly rummaged through her suitcase for a change of clothes. All she had to do was get through seven days without making an ass of herself, and she’d be free of Michael Conte for good. She wouldn’t have to worry about bumping into him at Alexa’s home, and she’d have her family all to herself.

The bitterness of the image mocked her satisfaction and screamed she was a liar. She’d gotten used to him over the past year. Too much so. And every time she gazed into those wicked dark eyes, the thought of her humiliation flashed in her mind and made her squirm.

The bathroom was small but boasted a deep marble tub and a shower stall. She decided to keep it quick and have a long soak later. She stepped under the stinging jets and let the heat relax her knotted muscles. Accustomed to forced blind dates from many colleagues, Maggie hadn’t thought twice when Alexa swore she’d found the perfect man for her. She remembered entering the expensive, intimate Italian restaurant and expecting a certain sort of man. A little cocky. A little too smooth. A little too attractive.

She’d been wrong.

Except for the attractive part.

Maggie scrubbed her skin and tried to whisk the memory away. But the images flickered before her eyes. The instant connection when their hands touched, like lightning bottled up tight and released from the cap to scorch. She’d almost jerked back. Almost. The walls she’d built held firm, but his conversation pulled her in and wrapped her like a warm hug. Yes, he was smooth, and charming, and funny, but there was a sense of realness in his core that spoke to her.

When dessert came, for the first time in as long as she could remember, she didn’t want the evening to end. And she sensed that he didn’t, either.

She learned her one motto from experience. Control the date, control the result. For some strange reason, she opened up and gave him a peek of her inner soul. The sensual pull twisted between them, and a lightness spread through her body. Maybe she was finally ready for something more. Maybe Alexa had been right all along. Maybe she’d discover a rainbow or a waterfall on that hidden path, or something that could finally surprise her and fill the aching void inside.

“I enjoyed this,” she said softly. “Maybe we can do it again.” When the impulsive invitation stumbled out over the rich tiramisu, she almost bit her tongue in horror, but it was too late.

He studied her in silence. “I don’t think that’s a good idea, Maggie.”

Her name drifted to her ears in a caress, but his words bit like the family dog gone mean. Rejection had never been considered.

“I’m sorry, cara. You’re a beautiful woman, and I’m extremely attracted to you. But I think this could end up a mess.”

The lightness shriveled and turned dim. Yes, she understood it was a sticky situation, but for the first time she had been willing to take a chance. She must have misjudged the situation. Or their connection. She almost laughed it off, but a strange fear glinted in those eyes and made her pause. He smiled, but she noted his discomfort by the way he shifted in his seat and grabbed his wineglass. Almost as if something held him back from taking her home. Almost as if . . .

The realization shook through her. The pieces of the puzzle slid and locked into place. Pain sliced deep into her core, and she barely managed to get the words out. “It’s Alexa, isn’t it?” she whispered. “You have feelings for her.”

“No! Alexa is my friend, nothing else.”

His denial screamed untruth as he looked away. Her skin flushed, and humiliation made her want to gag and run from the room. No wonder he didn’t want to date her. Her mind wandered over the conversation and found all the remarks he’d dropped along the way regarding Alexa. How wonderful she was. How caring. How smart. He’d even asked how they met, intrigued by her telling of their first encounter on the school bus when they’d gotten into a fight, then became best friends. He’d never been interested in her. This date revolved around gathering information on another woman.

He was in love with Alexa.

She choked back her shame and swore to get out with her pride. “I understand,” she said. Her words were laced with an icy distance. Her fingers didn’t shake as she pushed back her plate and slid out of her chair.

“Maggie, let’s talk about this. Please don’t go with the wrong impression.”

Her chuckle came out a bit brittle. “Don’t be ridiculous, Count. I’m a big girl—I can handle a little rejection. As long as you realize I’ll be keeping an eye on you. Especially around Alexa.”

He gasped, but Maggie saw right through him. “I told you—”

“Bullshit.” She grabbed her Coach purse and slung it over her shoulder. Her eyes narrowed. “See ya, Count.”

He called her name again but she ignored him and left the restaurant.

Maggie turned off the water and grabbed a towel. Even now his rejection hurt, as ridiculous as it sounded. He dragged her to the recurring nightmare of her youth.

Never good enough.

Angry with her thoughts and bad memories, she changed into a pair of jeans, green tank top, and leather sandals. No use going into the past. She controlled her relationships, her sexuality, and her own choices. And she sure as hell would never be sloppy seconds.

Especially not for Michael Conte.

She ran a brush through her damp hair and slicked on a coat of gloss. Then, pushing her disturbing thoughts to the back of her mind, she made her way downstairs to meet her new family.

Maggie stepped out in the back and found everyone gathered around the wrought-iron tables and matching bistro chairs. The alcove was surrounded by a walled garden of vivid blooms—a twist of yellows, bloodreds, and purples all screaming for attention. The sweet scent drifted on the warm breeze and tickled her nostrils. An elaborate fountain with a carved angel trickled water into a pond covered with floating moss. The sun washed over the rough terra-cotta cobblestones. Immediately, Maggie relaxed in the peaceful space. Her fingers itched for her camera in an effort to capture the almost mystical quality of quiet, even when invaded by the loud Italian family chattering at the table.

“Margherita, come join us.” She almost flinched at the sound of the full name, but Michael’s mother made it sound like magic, so she let it go. Rule number one: never criticize the matriarch of the family you just married into.

“Grazie.”

Michael poured her a glass of red wine, then intermingled his fingers with hers and smiled. Her heart hitched, but she smiled back with warmth. His sisters all looked eager to hear all the gory details. Maggie made an executive decision. The faster she spilled the story, the faster they’d move on to Venezia’s wedding.

She sipped her wine. “Would you like to know how we met?”

Michael’s brow shot up with surprise. A clamor of female voices rose in agreement. Maggie hid a smile. This one would be easy.

“My close friend Alexa set us up on a blind date. You see, my best friend is happily married to my brother. When she met Michael at a business dinner, she thought we’d be a perfect match.” Maggie threw a cloying smile at him and caught a warning gleam in his eyes. “The moment we met, he told me I was The One. Usually, I never believe men on the first date, but he courted me and won me over.”

Carina sighed and rested her plump chin in her hands. “That’s so romantic. Almost like Fate.”

“Yes, just like Fate.” Maggie squeezed Michael’s fingers. “We were going to set a wedding date, but when we heard Venezia was also engaged, we decided to elope. I hope you’re not too upset we skipped a full-fledged wedding, but I despise being the center of attention, so we thought this would be best.”

Michael brought her palm up to his mouth and placed a kiss in the center. Her skin tingled. “Si, Maggie is a very private person.”

Michael’s mother’s sharp stare contradicted her frail body. Unease tickled her belly. Anyone who raised four children and led a family business had brilliant instincts, and Maggie made a note to be careful when they were alone together. Knowing there weren’t many things to count on in life, she’d made sure her word was ironclad and never broken. Therefore, the stakes were high for her, too.

“What do you do, Maggie?” Julietta asked. Her long fingers held her wineglass with a delicacy that also belied her serious stare. Maggie remembered she was the head of the business end of La Dolce Famiglia. Polished and refined, Julietta was definitely the rational, down-to-earth sister.

“I’m a photographer. I have a shoot tomorrow in Milan so I’ll be gone most of the day.”

“How wonderful. What do you photograph?” Julietta asked.

“Men. In their underwear.” A silence fell over the table and Maggie shrugged. “It’s designer underwear, of course. I’m shooting Roberto Cavalli tomorrow.”

Venezia burst out laughing. “I love it! Can you get me a discount? Dominick would love a new pair of Cavallis.”

Carina giggled. Mama Conte gave a long-suffering sigh. “Venezia, we do not need to know what Dominick wears under his clothes.” She glowered. “And you should not know, either, until you are married. Capisce?”

“Maggie is a very gifted photographer,” Michael said. “I’m certain she will be broadening her experience, especially with so much to see in Italy.”

Maggie frowned. His almost apologetic statement to his family stung, but she swallowed her outburst with a gulp of Chianti. Just because she didn’t photograph cute puppies and babies did not make her choices less valuable. It was as if he knew that in her gut, she ached for more. Annoyed at her thoughts, she refocused on the conversation.

Venezia chattered as her hands confirmed each statement with dramatic gestures. Maggie pegged her as the emotional drama queen of the family. Still, her chocolate eyes burned bright with fire and enthusiasm, and her lithe body clad in expensive jeans, floral halter top, and Jimmy Choos told her she adored fashion. Michael seemed to disapprove of Venezia’s choice not to work in the family bakery, but her career as an assistant to a well-known stylist seemed to satisfy her creative flair. Maggie couldn’t picture her frosting cupcakes, buying advertising, or doing the bookkeeping.

“We’d like to hold the wedding here on the grounds,” Venezia continued. Her face softened. “Of course, we’ll have it catered with cake from our bakery. September is such a beautiful month.”

Julietta gasped. “That’s three months away!”

Her sister tossed a glare. “I don’t want to wait another minute to start my life with Dominick. Now that Michael is married, we can move ahead with our plans. We’ve already decided on the fifteenth. That’s okay with your schedule, right, Maggie? And of course you’ll be one of my bridesmaids.”

Maggie gulped as the guilt of their lie suddenly hit. She swallowed past it with another sip of wine. “Of course, I’ll clear my schedule.”

Venezia squealed with delight and clasped her hands together. “Wonderful. Oh, and why don’t we shop for our dresses this week?”

Julietta rolled her eyes. “I detest dress shopping.”

“Well, get over it. You’re my maid of honor and if you ruin it by whining I’ll never talk to you again.”

“I could only wish.”

Maggie twisted her diamond ring around her finger as it suddenly burned. She fought the slight panic of the reality of her situation. “Um, I’ll be busy with work, and I know Michael wanted to show me some of the sights while we’re here.” She smiled, but sensed it came out more like a grimace. “Maybe you and your sisters can go this week. If you find something, I’ll give you my size and you can order it. I’m sure I’ll see the dresses when Michael and I come back to visit.”

“Absolutely not.” Venezia’s eyes gleamed with hard resolve. “You are also my sister now, and you must come. Besides, I refuse to put you in something that doesn’t look good. It would ruin my reputation as a stylist.”

Julietta snickered.

“Maggie and I are on our honeymoon, and we need some alone time. Traipsing around dress shopping is not my idea of romance.” He smiled gently at her, and Maggie fought the melty sensation in her tummy.

Carina shot a pleading glance at Maggie. “Oh, please join us,” she said. “We’re a family now, and we missed out on all the excitement of your wedding. It’s only one afternoon.”

The pulsating walls closed in. How could she put on a bridesmaid dress and pretend she’d be in the wedding? Michael opened his mouth and Maggie caught a glimpse of his mother’s face.

Suspicion.

A tiny frown marred her brow. Her discomfort was obvious, and the elderly woman sensed something was up. Which it was. But Maggie made a promise, so she needed to fake it.

She placed her fingers over Michael’s lips to shush him. The soft curves made her ache to feel his mouth once more on hers, plunging deep and demanding everything. “No, Michael, your sisters are right.” She tried to look happy. “I would love to spend an afternoon dress shopping. It’ll be fun.”

His mother leaned back, nodded, and crossed her arms in front of her chest in satisfaction. More chatter buzzed in Maggie’s ears. She made a mental calculation of the hours left before she could collapse into slumber. A quiet dinner, an early night pleading exhaustion, and one day would be down. Tomorrow she’d work all day at the shoot, go file their papers at the consulate, and—what did Julietta say?

“Party?” Maggie asked. The word flashed in neon like a warning sign in her brain. Michael also looked surprised.

Mama Conte rose and settled her cane on the rough stones. “Si. The party tonight, Michael. You did not believe I would miss holding a celebration in my son and new wife’s honor? We must get started on dinner.”

“Is Max coming?” Carina asked in a breathless tone.

“Si, of course he is coming. And your cousins.”

Michael winced, then shot her a reassuring nod. Holy crap, she was drowning, and her fake husband threw her a life preserver with a leak in it. Bridesmaid dresses and now a marriage party. “Mama, we are really not up for a party tonight. We had a long flight, and Maggie has to work in the morning.”

She cut off his protests with a wave of her hand. “Nonsense. It is only a few people to extend their congratulations. It is nothing. Why don’t you pull some wine from our cellar and visit the home bakery site? Bring tiramisu and cannolis, black and white. Julietta will go with you for the ride.”

Maggie gulped. “Um, maybe I should—”

Mama Conte wrapped her hand around Maggie’s arm. Her frailty seemed nonexistent. Sheer strength pulsed from those delicate muscles and squeezed like a death trap. “Niente. You stay with me, Margherita, and help me with dinner.”

Michael shook his head. “Mama, Maggie does not cook. In the States, most women work and many do not know how to prepare food.”

That caught Maggie’s attention. Her head whipped around and she glared. “Screw you, Count, I can cook.” She gave a fake simper. “I just pretended not to know how so you’d take me to dinner more often.”

Mama Conte gave a proud cackle and led her inside, leaving an astonished count in their wake.

With every step toward the giant, shiny kitchen, a new bead of sweat appeared. Maggie seethed as one thought danced in her brain.

If she got out of this alive, she’d kill him.

Maggie wanted to give in to the urge to run from the house screaming. She hated kitchens. When she was younger, most of the cooks would turn mean when she’d enter their sacred space, until just the sight of that shiny equipment wrung a shudder. Still, she kept her head up and her attitude positive. She was a capable woman and could follow a recipe. Maybe dinner would be something easy and she could show Michael her unbelievable culinary talents and finally shut him up.

Michael’s mama already had a variety of bowls and measuring cups stacked on the long, wide counter. Various containers of powdered things were neatly lined up. Definitely not like that crazy show Iron Chef with all the chaos and running around to prepare a meal.

Maggie always believed cooking was done for survival—not pleasure. Since she earned lots of money, she spent most of it on take-out. She frowned and tried to feign enthusiasm for the task ahead. God, she wanted more wine. If she got drunk enough, she’d be more relaxed for the upcoming torture.

“What are we making?” she asked with fake cheer.

“Pasta. We shall eat a quick dinner before the rest of the family arrives, then put out pastries and coffee. You know how to cook pasta, Margherita?”

Relief relaxed her tight muscles. Thank God. Mama Conte picked the one meal she excelled at. She often cooked pasta late at night and knew how to get it to the perfect consistency of al dente. Maggie nodded. “Of course.”

Satisfaction flickered over the older woman’s face. “Good. We need a few batches. I’ve already gotten the ingredients.”

The massive countertop held flour, giant eggs, oil, rolling pins, and a variety of other equipment. She glanced around for the box of ziti and a pot to boil the water in as Mama Conte handed her an apron. Maggie wrinkled her nose at the odd choice of clothing just to stick something in water, but what the hell. When in Italy . . .

“I am sure you cook pasta differently in America, so you may watch me first, then prepare your batch.”

Confusion fogged her brain for a moment, and Maggie refused to give in to panic. Where was the blue box? What was she talking about? In growing horror, she watched as wrinkled hands moved like lightning cracking eggs, straining yolks, and mixing everything in a bowl. The flour was dumped in the middle of a large board, and slowly, Mama Conte poured the wet stuff in the middle and began some kind of ritual that blended it all together. Like magic, dough suddenly appeared, and she kneaded, stretched, and danced over the blob for endless minutes. Completely fascinated by the hypnotic ritual, Maggie couldn’t believe this stuff would end up looking like anything you could actually eat. Never breaking the rhythm, Mama Conte glanced toward her. “You may begin when you are ready.”

Oh. Shit.

Reality hit her as she stared at the mass of stuff piled in front of her. Homemade pasta! She had to make the actual dough? There was no heavenly box to open, or a jar of sauce to heat up. The stakes were much higher than she thought, and Maggie felt the beginnings of an attack nibble on her sanity. She breathed deep. She could do this. No way would she be broken by a lump of dough and an Italian mother just waiting to pounce. She’d show them all.

Maggie pulled the bowl close. The flour part was easy, but the eggs scared the hell out of her. Hm, one good crack in the middle, pull apart the shell, and the inside should slide out easily. With fake confidence, she slammed the egg against the edge of the bowl.

The slimy stuff slipped into her hands and white shell scattered. One quick glance at Mama Conte confirmed she wasn’t looking over, and she trusted Maggie to get her batch done. Humming some Italian song under her breath, she kept kneading.

Maggie scooped out as much of the shell as possible and left the rest in. A few more and she had some kind of wet ingredient that looked acceptable. Kind of. Screw it, she needed to move fast before his mother looked over. She poured a mass of flour in the center, then dumped the stuff in the bowl in the middle.

Liquid ran over the edges of the board in a runny mess. Trying not to pant, she wiped her brow with her elbow and scooped up the mess with the apron. The damn fork didn’t help stir it at all, so Maggie took a deep breath and stuck both hands into the junk.

Oh, gross.

Flour caught under her nails. She squeezed over and over and prayed for some sort of miracle that resembled dough. Powder flew around her in a dust cloud. The more she panicked, the faster she rolled. Maybe more flour or another egg? The rest was a blur until a pair of firm hands stilled her movements. Maggie closed her eyes in pure defeat. Then slowly opened them.

Mama Conte stared at the mess that was supposed to be pasta. White shells scattered within the lumps of gooey junk that slid over the counter and dripped on the floor. Tiny puff clouds rose and drifted around them. Her apron was filled with sticky clumps, and the so-called dough covered her bare arms up to her elbows.

Maggie knew it was over. Michael would never marry a woman who couldn’t cook homemade pasta. Mama Conte would never approve of such a match, or even believe in the possibility. With the last shred of pride she held, Maggie lifted her chin and met the woman’s gaze head-on.

“I lied.” Mama Conte lifted a brow in question, and Maggie rushed on. “I have no idea how to cook. I use the dried pasta and dump it in water. I heat up sauce in the microwave. I eat take-out almost every night.”

There. It was done. She prepared herself for the ridicule and accusation. Instead, Michael’s mother grinned.

“I know.”

Maggie jerked back. “What?”

“I wanted to see how far you would go. I am impressed, Margherita. You never show your fear. Once you commit, you see it through, even if you think you will fail. That is exactly what my son needs.”

With quick actions, Mama Conte dumped the oozing mess into the garbage, redusted with the flour, and turned to her. “We begin again. Watch me.”

Maggie watched as she was showed each step with careful precision. As the fear of discovery slid away, she relaxed into the lesson, her hands steeped in dough as she worked the mound with a strength that quickly tired her. The hand weights at the gym had nothing on cooking, and the muscles in Mama Conte’s arms and wrists never seemed to tire as she sought the perfect blend. Maggie caught up the lilting melody Michael’s mother hummed, and a sense of peace settled over her. She’d never cooked with a woman before, never been allowed in such a warm, domestic space. As the rolling pin worked the dough and was stretched delicately, Mama Conte handed her a portion.

“The earthiness of pasta dough is the true element in a good, simple meal. We must stretch it to a delicate thinness without breaking. Work the edge.”

Maggie bit her lip. “Mama Conte, maybe you should do this one?”

“No. You will serve your husband dinner tonight, Margherita, by your own hand. And this is not because you are beneath him, or he believes you are less. It is because you are more. So much more. Capisce?”

The beauty of her statement shimmered around her with sudden truth. She reached up, wiped her brow, and smeared batter over her forehead. And smiled. “Okay.”

They worked without speaking, humming Italian songs, listening to the soothing motions of the rolling pin and the chirping of birds in the distance. Maggie broke noodle over noodle, but dug in, until one perfect large strand draped over her hand. Uneven, but transparently thin without a break.

Mama Conte reached over and draped it on the drying stand, inspecting it carefully. Her cackle echoed through the kitchen. “Perfecto.”

Maggie grinned and wondered why she felt as if she just emerged from a Mount Everest climb in the middle of winter.

Hours later, she sat at the large table with bowls of steaming pasta and fresh tomato sauce. The scents of sweet basil and savory garlic hung in the air. Three bottles of wine took up the corners, and plates squeezed between the platters of food like secondary characters in a book. She glanced over nervously at Michael. Would he laugh? Would he tease her about her inability to cook and her pathetic efforts at an expert table?

Laughter and yelling and loud discussion swarmed around her in confusion. She was so used to dinners eaten at her breakfast counter while she watched television or at structured restaurants with low, murmured conversation. Growing up, she ate alone, or with her brother in silence. But Michael was different.

He teased his sisters and relaxed under the warmth of his family, and Maggie realized his ease was brought into every situation because he knew exactly who he was. She respected that in a man and found it rare. He enjoyed life and liked a sense of humor, and she wondered what it would be like to eat with him every night. Sip wine, talk about their day, cook together, and eat together. A real-life couple.

Michael picked up his fork, twirled the noodles, and popped them in his mouth.

She held her breath.

He made a moaning sound. “Ah, Mama, it is delicious.”

Mama Conte smirked and slid herself onto the seat. “You may thank your wife, Michael. Each noodle on your plate was made by her hand.”

He drew back in surprise. A tiny frown marred his brow as he looked down at the meal, then swung his gaze to meet hers. An odd combination of emotion swirled in those eyes. A lick of heat. A flare of pride. And a flicker of gratitude.

He bowed his head and a smile bloomed over his face. Lightness filled her, and she smiled back, the busyness of the table fading away under his attention. “Grazie, cara. I am honored to eat something you made for me. It is delicioso.”

She nodded, accepting his thanks. Venezia spoke about bridesmaid dresses and weddings. Carina spoke about art. Julietta spoke about the new ad campaign they were launching at the bakery. Michael kept eating, obvious pride in his fake wife’s food.

And for a little while, she was happier than she’d ever been.