Twenty-three

TEN minutes later, Quinn’s eyes were closed in ecstasy.

No, we were not in the bedroom. We were still in my kitchen, where coffee-furred Java and fluffy white Frothy were feasting happily on Fancy Feast, and the good lieutenant was tearing hungrily into my crazy Italian-Mexican concoction.

“Cosi,” he said, between satisfying chews and swallows, “how did you ever come up with this?”

“Necessity is often the mother of foodie invention.”

“You were out of queso blanco?”

“Close. Back when I was married to Matt—and he was actually home—he liked to make traditional Puerto Rican–style pernil. One weekend, those amazing pieces of roasted pork were all gone, and a nor’easter was raging. I remember my Joy was only a few years old. She was so scared of the thunder that Matt convinced her it was nothing more than a big drum being played by a giant parading around in the sky. He had her marching around the apartment, pretending to play her own drum. ‘Boom! Boom! Boom!’ You should have seen the two of them—they were pretty adorable.”

“I’ll bet.”

“We didn’t have much cash for takeout, and I didn’t want Matt going out into the deluge, so I invented these.” (It was a cinch, given the stack of tortillas on hand for the pernil and my years helping my grandmother make subs for her little Italian grocery.)

“I know my squad would love them. Easy to make, right?”

“Sure, just a few tricks to keep in mind.”

“Which are?”

I suppressed a laugh. The only thing cops liked to talk about more than the Job was food.

“Tell them to warm the cold cuts first. Some of that luxurious, buttery fat will melt out of the meat and into the pan, which will boost the flavor.”

Quinn dipped the edge of a second quesadilla into the small bowl I’d filled with olive oil, vinegar, and herbs. “Mmm . . .” He closed his eyes again. “This salad dressing dip is inspired, too.”

I nodded. “A classic Italian sub comes with a drizzle of salad dressing. So I thought, why not turn it into a dip for the quesadilla? The bright tang perfectly complements the unctuous richness of the meats, don’t you think?”

He licked his fingers. “What meats, exactly?”

“Whatever salumi you like: prosciutto, salami, soppressata—”

“Super-whatta?” `

“It’s what you’re eating, buddy: dried Italian sausage.”

“Well, it’s delicious, even if I can’t pronounce it.” He smiled. “What else am I eating?”

“Mortadella—that’s basically Italian bologna. It’s made with big chunks of fat that will melt like a dream in your hot pan . . .”

He raised an eyebrow. “Are you trying to turn me on, Cosi? Because if you are, it’s working.”

I laughed. “After your cold cuts are warm, take them out of the pan, drizzle in a little olive oil, and heat it through. Then you’re basically making a meat-stuffed grilled cheese, except you’re using tortillas instead of bread.”

“Got it—except the cheese. What kind? Mozzarella?”

“Thinly sliced provolone. Not the aged kind. You want the young, mild version. It melts as beautifully as mozzarella but has more flavor . . .”

As I spoke, Quinn took another bite. Strings of oozing cheese trailed from his lips. With sensual sounds of gustatory joy, he used his tongue to recapture those warm, delectable strands.

It was surprisingly erotic, and my mind paused a few seconds, contemplating what else the lieutenant might do with his tongue.

“Sweetheart? You okay?”

No, I wanted to say. I’m tired. I’m in love with you. And I’m ready to melt, too. Let’s go upstairs . . .

But I didn’t say that. Instead, I gritted my teeth against my weak flesh and checked my watch. I had responsibilities, even if my libido didn’t.

“Any dessert?” Quinn asked, licking his fingers clean.

Forcing my attention away from the man’s mouth, I did a quick dessert recon and came up with victory. The last two squares of my Italian Cream Cake.

Despite its “Italian” moniker, the cake was an American specialty (some say) invented by an Italian baker living in the South. That’s why the recipe I’d made came not from my nonna but Tucker’s Granny Chestnut in his native Louisiana.

I added a few tweaks for smoother texture; adapted the layer cake ratios for a sheet pan; and slathered the frosting on wickedly thick.

Quinn was silent as he ate, inhaling the final blissful bite with closed eyes, then licking the last bit of sweet, creamy frosting off his fork.

“Marry me.”

“Already said yes.”

As I got up to clear our plates, he gently captured my wrist and pulled me close.

“So when are we going to set a date?”