Micah shrugged. “Anything is fine,” he said honestly.

Damon shot him an unimpressed look over his shoulder.

“I mean, pizza sounds good, I guess,” he said, figuring it’d be easy enough to pop a frozen pie into the oven.

“Pizza it is.”

Micah wasn’t prepared for Damon to sit him in a chair before filling the countertop with various ingredients and begin making what appeared to be homemade pizza dough.

“Don’t you have anything frozen we can throw in the oven?” he asked.

Damon shot him a half-offended/half-disgusted look before returning to his dough-making. Not that Micah was complaining. The man had shed his suit jacket and rolled up the sleeves of his dress shirt, and Micah didn’t even bother trying to disguise the way he eyed Damon’s strong forearms, watching the way his veins bulged as he worked the dough.

Micah offered to help, but after he managed to dump a tablespoon instead of a teaspoon of black pepper into the sauce (forcing Damon to start the sauce over), and then sliced his finger open on the cheese grater while shredding the mozzarella, Damon gently, but firmly, forced him to sit back in his seat.

About thirty minutes later – fifteen minutes after Damon had put the pizza into the oven – Micah was scarfing down what he could honestly say was the best pizza he’s ever eaten. (And he lived in New York, he’d eaten a lot of pizza.) His stomach felt close to bursting by the time he was finished.

“You’ve ruined pizza for me for life,” he complained as he patted his slightly distended stomach. “How am I ever supposed to eat takeout again?”

“You’re ridiculous,” Damon said, waving off the compliment.

“I’m serious.” Micah tilted his head in consideration. “Although, it’s probably a good thing you aren’t around to cook for me every day. I’d gain twenty pounds the first month.”

“You’d look cute with a little belly.”

Micah flushed at the unexpected comment. Judging by the hint of red crawling up Damon’s neck, he hadn’t anticipated the words coming out of his mouth either.

Time to change the subject, Micah.

He cleared his throat. “So… what’s on the agenda for today?” he asked, figuring he probably ought to know why exactly they were at Damon’s ancestral house – in Italy. “I mean, I doubt you flew me all the way out here just to show off your family’s countryside estate.”