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Nine
Frankie hovered over my shoulder as I turned off the burner on the boiling potatoes. “Can I help with anything?”
“No. I got this.” I checked the time on the oven clock, pleased that, for once, I timed everything exactly right.
“O-kay,” he sang and sat at the kitchen island.
I glared over my shoulder as the steam from draining the potatoes in the sink hit me in the face. “It’s been a while since I burned anything.”
Frankie lifted his eyebrows and pursed his lips as he tapped away on his phone.
“And there he goes. A tap, tap, tappy.” I mashed the potatoes with butter, heavy whipping cream, milk, salt, and pepper. The timer dinged, and I took out the pot roast to rest on the stovetop. I was the very picture of a domestic goddess. “I feel like I’m forgetting something.” The dining room was set, the wine uncorked, and the dessert from Loretta sat on the counter under the glass cake holder to keep it safe from Ryan.
“Salad,” Frankie said without looking up.
“Thank you.” I pulled the undressed mix from the refrigerator, begrudgingly thankful for my taciturn companion. “I always forget something.”
“Mhm.” Frankie stood and left the kitchen. Just seconds later, the doorbell rang.
“Freaky,” I mumbled as I poured Loretta’s homemade dressing over the salad and shook.
“It smells good in here,” Marco called from the hallway.
“Don’t sound so surprised.”
Frankie and Marco laughed and joined me in the kitchen.
Marco dropped a kiss on my cheek and asked, “Can I help?”
“You can carry this into the dining room for me?”
“You got it.”
I ran my hands down the front of Luca’s “I am the heat in the kitchen” apron—a joke gift I got him for his birthday—and untied it.
“Did Loretta make the cake?” Marco lifted the glass lid and inhaled. “Triple chocolate.” He closed his eyes and groaned.
“You know it’s your fault you have to eat secondhand cake, right? Why don’t you try being nice?”
He set the top down gently and shook his head. “I wouldn’t give her the satisfaction of knowing her cakes are the best I’ve ever had. Outside of her cooking, she’s insufferable.”
“She’s sweet, and you’re an asshole.”
“So?” Marco shrugged as the doorbell rang again.
“Showtime!” I threw the apron over a barstool and rushed to the front door. Swinging it open, I smiled at Ashley and Malcolm. “Welcome! Come on in.” As they passed me, I quickly stepped out onto the porch. “You hungry? I could bring you a plate.”
Tommy’s cheeks darkened, and he pushed off the railing to stand straight. “You don’t have to do that.”
“It’s no problem. Sorry, you can’t join us.”
“I’m on the clock, ma’am.”
I grimaced. “Nope. We’re not doing the ma’am thing. I get you’re eighteen—”
“Twenty-one.”
“Potato, poh-ta-toe. You’re a fucking baby. Anyway. Call me Sasha, or avoid addressing me at all.”
