Page 44 of Fall Love

Exactly. But I don’t say the word. Instead, I half-heartedly smile.

“Ziti?” I say, not wanting to discuss this topic any longer.

She continues to look at me for another second before the corner of her mouth ticks upward. “Ziti.”

CHAPTER 16

[Neve]

While I’d slept, Tate cleaned my kitchen and made fresh pie dough, which he set in the fridge. I start the oven for the baked ziti Lumi brought me, while thoughts about Tate’s dad fill my head.

He looked utterly crushed with the admission that he didn’t follow in his father’s footsteps. That his father had been disappointed in him.

From an outsider’s perspective, Tate is doing pretty well for himself. The suit. The silver watch. The slick clothes, especially those khakis from the other day. But nothing can wreck a child’s heart more than feeling like they failed a parent.

I’d been a bit of a disappointment to my mother. She never told me so directly, but I wasn’t one of her girls. The girly kind of girls, like my sisters. I clung to my father. The son he never had in a daughter.

Once the ziti is in the oven, I suggest we put together the ingredients for the pie. Since the oven will be hot, we’ll bake the pie afterward. The time it takes to heat ziti and finish a pie will only prolong Tate’s departure, but there’s something holding me back from shoving him out the door.

I was surprisingly relieved to find he hadn’t left me earlier, like I thought.

“I want to apologize.”

His brows lift. “For what?”

“How I behaved yesterday. I was . . . emotional.”

He purses his lips, thankfully not commenting on the obvious.

“I was really close to my dad. Especially close to him. He was my best friend,” I admit. “And his loss was really hard on me. So, although I know it’s the right thing . . . to let go of Rusty’s Wrecks . . . I’m just struggling.”

He nods, like he understands, although I’m not certain he can. If he didn’t have a tight relationship with his father, could he appreciate mine?

“Anyway. I know you’re just the messenger, and the sale isn’t your fault. I shouldn’t have reacted to you like I did.”

“It’s understandable. Change is hard. Painful even, sometimes.” His brown eyes are sympathetic, compassionate. “But thank you for sharing with me about your dad.”

“I just want you to know I’m sorry. And I also wanted you to know that I’m not a crybaby. I don’t know where all that emotion came from other than . . .” I wave toward my belly. “I can be a mess some days.”

“Just some?” He tilts his head, teasing me.

I point toward him with no heat. “Sounds like it’s time to put you to work in this kitchen.”

“That’s exactly what my grandmother would say when I was a kid.”

“Smart woman.”

He smiles fondly. “One of the best.” Then he claps his hands and rubs them together. “Okay. Dough time.”

Like everything else today, something as simple as making dough shouldn’t send crackles of energy sparking through my body.

But when Tate comes up behind me, setting his hands over mine on the old roller, my body reacts to his. Again. He pushes that roller forward, causing his chest to gently tap my back, and then I pull the roller toward me, pressing my back against him. The push and pull reminds me so much of sex, and for a brief second, I imagine Tate taking me in this position, bent over the island.

Then I shake my head.

Yet back and forth we work, stretching out that dough until it’s almost too thin, like my first batch.

When it looks flat and even, I scoop up the rolled dough with Tate’s hands beneath mine. We set the dough in the pie tin, each taking a side to press the future crust against the sides, circling that tin until our fingers meet again. I don’t look up at him, like it’s normal for all this finger brushing and energy crackling.