Certain.
Far too dangerous.
“She’s already chosen her side.”
Deciding not to encourage him, I shove a mouthful of pasta into my mouth.
Then I look at Rosa in shock.
She gives me a silent chuckle and a knowing nod.
In my daughter’s words, this really is another-world delicious.
Maverick still hasn’t touched his food, and I’m about two seconds from butting in when Rosa and her staff move to a second, smaller table on the other side of the room.
They sit and start eating.
Only then does Maverick lean forward and pick up his fork.
Very politely.
Very calmly.
Very unfairly.
He uses only a fork, but somehow his pasta twists around it in one perfect little bundle, neat and obedient, before he lifts it to his mouth.
And eats it way too sensually.
I glance around the table and realize almost everyone else is doing the same thing.
Everyone except the children.
And me.
My noodles arenotobedient.
My noodles are fighting for their lives.
“Is it an Italian law that the spaghetti noodles have to obey you while you eat them?” I ask.
Maverick pauses, fork halfway to his mouth.
Stefano’s shoulders start shaking.
I point at Maverick’s plate. “How are yours wrapped so cleanly around your fork while mine are hanging on for dear life? I’ve already gotten sauce on my shirt, and I’ve only taken one bite.”
Maverick reaches for his napkin, amusement warming his eyes. “May I?”
I narrow my eyes. “Are you about to dab sauce off my shirt at a table full of people?”
“No.” His mouth curves. “I was going to teach you how to make the pasta behave.”
“Oh.” I look down at my plate. “Then yes. Please. I’m losing this fight.”
Stefano lifts his glass. “A brave woman admits when she has been bested by carbohydrates.”
“Number Two,” Livy says solemnly, “don’t make fun of Mama’s noodles. They’re trying their best.”
