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She scuttled out, and Roman traced my bottom lip with his thumb.
“How do you feel about meeting the Mayor of Albany?”
Chapter Twelve
So what do you have in mind for tomorrow’s dinner?” I asked Roman as we wound through the produce section.
“I have no idea. I wanted to call the caterer, remember?” He picked up an apple and put it in the basket he was carrying.
“Cooking dinner for him will be charming, though. Plus, I like to cook, and I’m happy to help. So I think the words you’re looking for are ‘thank you, Amy.’” I grinned at him while putting a few onions in a plastic bag.
“Thank you, Amy,” he replied with his own smile. I had to admit, seeing him like this, in his pressed suit and polished persona, holding a little red grocery basket while browsing the fruit section, was so wonderfully…normal.
“What’s your favorite thing to eat?” I asked across the display of potatoes.
He glanced up and met my gaze, a wicked smile splitting his lips.
My eyes shot wide. “I meant food.”
He feigned a pout and heat rushed to my cheeks. The man was incor
rigible and practically had me giggling like a teenager.
“Well…” He walked along the column of vegetables, perusing the artichokes. “There was this one dish my mother made. It was actually the only thing she made.” His tone was sharp and his whole body was tense, but he continued. “It was a seared pork chop and some kind of cheese pasta.”
I came to stand by him. He tossed a head of lettuce into the basket. “She only cooked it a few times when I was really young. I don’t know how she made it, and I’m sure she doesn’t remember anymore either.”
I gently set the onions in the basket and ran a hand down his arm. Whatever the issue was between him and his mother, it was obviously touchy. Deep sadness and anger radiated from him, and I didn’t want to push. I was just ecstatic he was sharing something real about himself.
“Well, I think I can figure out something close,” I said.
He shrugged, then went to the section against the wall that held the berries and herbs. His expression had changed, just like after we were intimate. Closed off. It was as though he threw away whatever thoughts he was having and replaced them with indifference. Like he didn’t want to feel whatever it was he was approaching.
It was right then that I silently reached a new level of understanding of Roman Reese. He stayed away from things he had no interest in remembering, handling, or controlling.
And I was lumped into that group.
Yet, he was still here with me.
There was hope.
“Make what you want for dinner,” he said, grabbing a carton of blueberries and zeroing those dark eyes in on me. “So long as I get what I want for dessert.”
“Now this is comfort food,” Ken Stanton, the mayor of Albany, said. “You made this?”
He looked at me from across the big dining room table. He had to be in his late fifties. With his white hair and kind eyes, a certain jolliness radiated from him.
I smiled and nodded. “Yes, sir.”
Though Roman had insisted that his staff help, I had gotten to make my version of Roman’s mother’s dish. Not to mention, using his kitchen was like working in a dream. There were state-of-the-art appliances and so much space that my entire apartment could have rested on the countertop like one of Hazel’s creepy crafted turkeys.
“Wow.” He took another bite, then pointed his fork at Roman. “I think you’ve got a keeper here, Reese.”
Heat rushed to my cheeks, half from the mayor’s praise and half from the way Roman looked at me. Like he was proud.
After grilling Roman about what he remembered of the dish, I had spent all afternoon trying to perfect what I was pretty sure was macaroni and cheese and a shake ’n bake pork chop. With a little engineering, I had made everything from scratch and added homemade apple sauce as another side. I just hoped it was everything Roman imagined.
“Indeed I do,” Roman said and palmed my knee under the table.
