Wanda rolled her eyes affectionately, stepping closer until her knees bumped against the edge of the sofa cushions.
"What can I do for you, then?" she asked, tilting her head to the side.
I uncrossed my arms, holding them wide open.
"Hug me first," I demanded. "And say, 'oh my baby'."
Wanda let out a bright laugh. She leaned over, dropping all of her weight onto me, wrapping her arms tightly around my neck and burying her face in my shoulder.
"Oh, my baby," she cooed.
"Yes," I sighed, wrapping my arms around her waist and pulling her flush against my chest. "I am the baby. I require constant attention and warm food."
She shifted her weight, swinging her legs over my lap so she was sitting sideways across my thighs.
She pulled her face back just enough to look me in the eyes.
Her green eyes were sparkling, all the tension of whatever 'errand' she had been running completely washed away.
She leaned down, pressing her lips to mine.
I kissed her back, my hands moving up to cup her face, feeling the soft skin of her cheeks.
We lingered there for a long moment, breathing each other in, re-establishing the anchor between us.
When we finally separated, I patted the cushion beside me.
"Come," I said, shifting my legs to make room. "The food is getting cold, and I refuse to eat cold pork belly."
She slid off my lap, settling onto the cushion right next to me.
I reached out to the trolley, grabbing the silver handle of the first cloche and lifting it away. A cloud of fragrant steam rolled into the air.
The Chicken Cacciatore was swimming in a dark red tomato sauce, dotted with olives and herbs.
I lifted the second cloche, revealing the caramelized slabs of pork belly resting on a bed of golden polenta.
I picked up her porcelain plate. I used the serving tongs to carefully transfer a generous piece of the chicken onto her plate, spooning extra sauce over the top.
Then, I added a large scoop of the polenta and a slice of the pork.
"There," I said, handing her the heavy plate and a set of silver cutlery. "A balanced diet."
I arranged my own plate, piling it high with the remaining food. I picked up my wine glass, taking a slow sip of the Barolo. It tasted like crushed dark berries.
I picked up my fork, looking at the food.
"You know," I said, turning my head to look at her as she cut a piece of the chicken. "I have watched all these dishes on TikTok."
Wanda paused. "TikTok?"
"Yes. It's a video app. People just film themselves cooking," I explained, cutting a piece of my pork belly. "I used to lay in bed at 2 AM, watching these Italian chefs toss pasta in giant wheels of cheese, or slow roast pork over an open fire. And I always wondered what the actual version should taste like. Because the screen doesn't give you the flavor."
Wanda smiled, looking down at her plate. She speared the piece of chicken she had cut, swirling it in the rich tomato sauce until it was completely coated.
Instead of eating it herself, she turned toward me. She raised her hand, bringing her fork directly to my mouth.
"Try this," she whispered, her eyes locked onto mine.
I opened my mouth, accepting the bite from her fork.
I closed my eyes as I chewed.
The chicken was incredibly tender, practically melting on my tongue. The sauce was a perfect balance of acidic tomatoes, briny olives, and savory herbs.
"Oh, wow," I mumbled, swallowing the food. I opened my eyes, looking at her with genuine amazement. "This is tasty. Really. The hype is justified."
Wanda laughed, pulling her fork back and taking a bite of the pork belly for herself. Her eyes widened slightly as she chewed.
"The pork," she said, covering her mouth politely as she spoke. "It is so... rich. It is like butter."
"I told you," I grinned, cutting another piece of the pork. I stabbed it with my fork, dragging it through the creamy polenta. I held my fork out to her.
She opened her mouth, leaning forward to accept the bite.
"It is incredible," she sighed, chewing happily.
The movie continued to play in the background, Superman flying across the screen, but neither of us paid it any attention. We were entirely focused on the silver trolley in front of us.
We established a rhythm. I would cut a piece, drag it through the sauce, and feed it to her.
She would chew, offer her verdict, and then cut a piece of her own, feeding it back to me.
"You are getting sauce on your chin," I teased, reaching across the space between us with my thumb.
I wiped a tiny drop of red tomato sauce from the corner of her mouth.
She turned her head slightly, pressing a soft kiss against the pad of my thumb.
"You are a very messy eater, Dr. Spencer," she countered, picking up her wine glass and taking a sip, leaving a faint imprint on the rim. "I am just trying to keep up with you."
"I am an enthusiastic eater," I corrected, picking up my own glass and clinking it gently against hers. "There is a difference."
We finished the entire spread.
The plates were scraped clean, the Caprese salad was nothing but a memory of basil and mozzarella, and the wine bottle was completely empty.
I leaned back heavily against the sofa, letting out a groan of satisfaction.
"I have achieved maximum density," I declared, resting a hand on my stomach.
Wanda set her empty glass down on the trolley. She stretched her arms above her head.
"I am going to take a bath," she announced, standing up from the sofa. She looked down at me. "The hot water will help the digestion."
"Okay," I agreed, letting my head fall back against the cushions. "Take your time. I will manage the cleanup."
She leaned down, pressing a kiss to my forehead, and then padded silently across the rug, disappearing into the massive marble bathroom.
I waited until I heard the heavy rush of water filling the clawfoot tub.
I picked up the landline phone from the side table, dialing the 'zero' key.
"Front desk," a voice answered.
"Room 501," I said quietly. "We are finished with the dining trolley. You can come retrieve it."
"Right away, sir."
Less than two minutes later, there was a soft knock at the door. I walked over, opening it to find the same waiter standing in the hallway.
He stepped inside silently, gripping the handles of the trolley.
In one smooth motion, he folded the side flaps down, covering the dirty plates with a fresh linen napkin, and wheeled the entire cart backward out of the suite.
"Have a wonderful evening, sir," he whispered, pulling the door shut behind him.
I locked the deadbolt.
I turned around, walking slowly across the plush rug toward the bedroom area.
I locked my eyes on the invisible 'lens' hovering in the shadows.
"Alright, folks," I said. I crossed my arms over my chest. "This is where the broadcast ends for the evening. From this point forward, this is a strictly censored part."
I reached out, grabbing the edge of the heavy velvet curtain and yanked it sharply.