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“Stop it,” she responded in a low voice.
“Mmm, interesting. The first time you’ve asked me to stop.” The sexual suggestion in his voice was unmistakable. “The words never crossed your lips in the storage room, or at the bar...or in your apartment, come to think of it.”
“St—” She caught herself and compressed her mouth. “You’re enjoying this.”
“There are a lot of things I enjoy...doing with you.”
Marisa felt a wave of awareness swamp her. Fortunately, their mothers appeared to be deep in their own conversation, because she could barely look at Cole. She grew hot at the memory of what they had done on her couch, which she’d now taken to referring to as Couch #2—never to be confused with the chintzy Couch #1 that still resided at the Pershing School. Whenever the student theater group had used #1 in a play over the years, Marisa could hardly keep her mind on the performance.
And right now Cole looked primed and ready for another round. Except she wasn’t about to defile his mother’s TV set sofa, no matter how hungry and frustrated Cole was.
She suppressed a giggle that welled up from nowhere and forced her mind back to the topic at hand. Camilla and her mother were engaged in a brisk discussion about whether to make a tiella or a calzone di cipolla on the air. The potato-and-mussel casserole and the onion pie were both dishes of Puglia, the Italian region of Marisa’s ancestors.
“The calzone is a traditional Christmas recipe,” Donna said. “Like plum pudding in England. And since this show is going to air in the spring, I think the tiella would be better.”
Marisa had told her mother to bring a couple of recipes along today, and had discussed them with her in advance. Her little white lie had been that the show planned to enter audience members in a raffle giveaway if they brought along a recipe.
“Donna, cara, siamo d’accordo!”
Cole’s mother’s enthusiasm and agreement were apparent no matter what the language spoken. Still... Donna, cara? When had her mother and Cole’s progressed to being bosom buddies?
“You will be perfetto on the show, Donna. You and the bellissima Marisa.”
Marisa felt Cole lean close.
“I’m surprised she isn’t suggesting you become a bottle blonde,” he murmured sardonically, “like the rest of the hostesses on Italian television.”
“This is not an Italian show, Cole!” His mother fixed him with a look that said she’d overheard. “My hair is brown, and I speak English.”
“Some people would debate the second part.”
“Uh-oh,” Jordan singsonged from his seat in the front row. “Cole’s gonna be barred from the lasagna dinners.”
“Exactly what is your role here?” Cole shot back.
Jordan grinned. “Comic relief. And Mom invited me.” He looked around. “Hey, where’s the popcorn? The drama’s been good up
to now, but the concessions leave something to be desired.”
Cole ignored his brother and turned toward Marisa and her mother. “What my mother means is that she thinks Mrs. Casale has the personality for television. It’s important to engage the audience on the small screen.”
“Yes,” Camilla agreed. “And dress in bold colori but not too much zigzag or fiori.”
“Chill on the patterns,” Jordan piped up.
“Makeup—more is better.”
“I’m so glad we’re doing this,” Donna remarked with enthusiasm. “Marisa has loved to cook and bake since she was a little girl.”
“Cole loved to eat,” Camilla confided.
“Marisa was born a preemie, so I spent the first few months making sure she put on weight!”
Marisa bit her lip. “Oh, Mom, not that story again.” Her mother had a terrifying habit of bringing it up in public situations.
“Scrappy, that’s what I’ve always called her.”
“Cole was nine pounds. Was a long labor,” Camilla put in.
