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He doubted she had beer on hand. “Water would be fine, thanks.”
As Marisa walked to the fridge, he dug in with his fork and took his first bite. Her eggplant parmigiana went down smooth, hot and savory. Fantastic.
Apparently, Marisa could cook in the same way that Wayne Gretzky could play hockey.
Cole was four bites in and well on his way to demolishing her baked confection when she returned with a glass of water.
“Not sparkling water,” she said apologetically, setting down a tumbler, “but filtered from the tap.”
He filched a napkin from the stack on the table, wiped his mouth and then took a swallow.
He was here to seduce her, but she was enthralling him with her culinary skills. Her dish was sublime, and he’d do anything for a repeat of that kiss in the bar. “Marisa, you make an eggplant parmigiana that can reduce grown men to a drool and whimper.”
She lowered her shoulders, and her mouth curved. “Don’t the Serenghettis have a family recipe?”
“This may be even better, but don’t tell my mother.”
“I’m sure it’s been decades since your mother tried to bring men to their knees. But I’m also certain she wouldn’t mind if it was her eggplant parmigiana that did the trick.”
“Yeah, she takes pride in her cooking.” The truth was that while Camilla Serenghetti used food to lure her sons home, she was a force to be reckoned with in other ways, as well.
Marisa touched her hair. “I’ll let you finish your food. I’ll, um, be back in a few minutes.”
“Sure.” Moments later he heard a door click.
Cole finished the food before him, savoring every bite. When he was done, he got up and deposited his plate and glass in the sink—because if there was one thing Camilla Serenghetti had drilled into her sons, it was how to be polite and pick up after yourself.
Then he looked around and surveyed Marisa’s place. It was unsporting of him, but he was willing to use any advantage to get to know more of her. Besides, he was curious about how she lived.
Walking out of the kitchen, he retraced his steps in the hallway. Marisa’s bedroom door was closed. Beyond it, he entered the large living room. One corner held a desk, a bookcase and a screen that could be used to shield the nook from the rest of the room. A rolled-arm sofa upholstered in a cream-and-light-green stripe served as a counterpoint to the dominant flower motif. There were also several small tables that looked as if they could be hand-me-down family pieces—sturdy but with decades under their scarred chestnut tops.
From a builder’s perspective, Marisa had done a good job sprucing up her prewar apartment without undertaking a major renovation. It was neat, cozy and feminine.
He walked over to a built-in bookshelf dotted with framed photos and found himself staring at a picture of Marisa the way she had looked in her high school days. She was laughing as she leaned against the railing of a pier. Wearing jeans and a sweatshirt, she appeared more relaxed and carefree than she’d been while roaming the halls at Pershing. With a sudden clenching of the gut, Cole wondered whether the photo had been snapped before or after the debacle of their senior year...
He glanced down at the books lining a shelf below eye level. Crouching, he tilted his head to read the titles. Pleasing Your Man, Losing the Last 5 Lbs., The Infidelity Recovery Plan, and last but not least, Bad Boys and the Women Who Shouldn’t Need Them.
It didn’t take a genius to make sense of the titles, especially since the final one seemed to be addressed to him personally.
Cole straightened. He’d never have guessed everything going on behind the facade of the normally reserved and occasionally fiery Marisa Danieli. He also couldn’t believe his high school Lolita—edible as a sugared doughnut—saw herself as insufficiently sexy. Had ordering the Cobb salad at their dinner been about being thinner and more attractive? What about her exercise routine?
And what kind of jerk had she been engaged to? For sure, she’d had her ego bruised by Sal Piazza’s horn-dog behavior. But if she thought Sal had strayed because she wasn’t sexy enough, she was marching her feathered mules down the wrong school corridor. If Marisa could glimpse his fantasies lately, Cole was sure she’d overheat rather than doubt her sex appeal. He could happily lose his mind exploring her lush curves.
Hearing a sound behind him, he straightened and turned in time to see Marisa walk into the room, hair down and brushing her shoulders. “You’ve got an interesting collection of books.”
Marisa’s gaze moved from him to the bookcase, and she looked embarrassed.
“Sal wants to imitate the athletes that he represents,” he said without preamble. “Sure he’d like to get his clients what they wish for, but he also wants to be them. That’s why he wanted to bag Vicki. It wasn’t about you.”
“So don’t take it personally?” she quipped.
“Those who can, do, and those who can’t become sports agents instead,” he responded without answering her directly.
“Like that saying about those who can, do, and those who can’t, teach?” she parried. “Teaching is one of the hardest—”
“—jobs in the world,” he finished for her. “I know. I was one of those problem students who got himself suspended, remember?”
After a moment, she sighed. “Those who can’t become sports agents, and those who can’t become teachers. So I guess Sal and I were perfectly matched.”
