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Romero wears a faintly sarcastic grin as he backs away. “You are going to have your hands full tonight,” he reminds me, shaking his head. “No offense, but I wouldn't want to be in your shoes. Although I would definitely like to be a fly on the wall.”
BIANCA
“Where's the ricotta?” I could have sworn I pulled it out of the fridge while gathering the rest of the ingredients.
“Right here.” Callum slides the container my way. “How can I help?”
It's sort of adorable that he wants to help, so I don't want to turn him down. And with my nerves as fried as they are right now, I could use the help. If I'm not careful, I'll end up knocking the baking dish on the floor instead of putting it in the oven. The thought of tomato sauce splashing across the white tile and shiny stainless steel makes me wince—Sheryl would never forgive me if I didn't leave this kitchen looking better than she left it. I love her, and she seems to like me a lot, but there are lines you don't cross.
“Can you please crack two eggs and stir them into the ricotta?” I wish I had a written recipe, but Mom never worked that way. Everything she cooked, she eyeballed. A meal could taste totally different depending on her mood that day, but it was always delicious.
Noodles are boiling on the stove, along with marinara sauce Sheryl made a while back and had kept frozen. That's thawed now, bubbling slightly beside a pan of browned sausage. Everything's in place. So why am I so nervous?
Oh, that's right, because depending on how things go between a pair of stubborn, pigheaded men, this could be the final meal for one of them. I'll have to keep them from clawing each other's throats out.
“Stir the noodles, please?” I feel like my head's going to explode from everything buzzing around inside. I have to prep the vegetables to layer with the cheese and sausage and make sure the noodles don't get overcooked—there's not much I hate more than mushy pasta.
He dips a pair of tongs into the boiling water, stirring gently. “Do you want to hear something that will shock you?”
I blow out a breath, “Oh god, I don't know, yes, maybe.”
Callum grins, and I swear I'll never get over how devilishly handsome he is. “This is kind of nice.”
“You're right, I'm shocked.” Somehow I manage to take a break from stressing out to kiss him. And it is nice. It's the sort of thing I would always like to do. Working as a team, watching as he does his best to be helpful and positive. I know I'm being a real pain in the ass, freaking out, wanting everything to be perfect. He's been nothing but patient even though I know he can't be looking forward to having dinner with Dad.
“Did you ever do any cooking for yourself?” I ask while finely chopping herbs to be mixed in with the ricotta.
Shrugging, he says, “I mean, I had to eat, so yeah.”
“That's not what I meant. Do you have any signature dishes? Something you fall back on?” Ugh, did he ever make something special for Amanda? I'm starting to wish I hadn't asked.
“If you count cereal and instant ramen, sure.” I slow my chopping, looking at him. Finally, he shrugs. “We didn't have any money when I was a kid. I told you that.”
“Yes, I remember.”
“So I made do with what we had. Once I was on my own in the world, I didn't have much money either. What do they call that? The salad days?”
“I have no idea what that is but sure.”
“Every penny I made went to survival, and that's what food was then. I ate because I had to if I wanted to live. There was nothing about pleasure or enjoyment.” He snorts, and I notice his gaze moving around the spacious, gleaming kitchen. “Hot dogs chopped up in a bowl of ramen noodles was as fancy as it got.”
“That doesn't sound too bad, actually.”
“When you live on it for a week straight, you might feel a little differently.” He's smiling about it, so I guess it's easy to smile when you're on the other side.
Once I've declared the noodles a minute shy of al dente, he drains the pot and rinses the pasta according to my instructions. There's a salad already prepared in the fridge and garlic bread waiting to be placed in the oven once the lasagna comes out.
“I have to hurry,” I fret once I start putting everything together. “The lasagna needs to sit for a while to set up, or else you slice into it and it falls apart.”
“I'm learning so much tonight.” He pours himself a glass of wine from a bottle he opened for the occasion. “However, you need to take a breath. No matter what you make him, he'll love it.”
“How would you know?” I ask with a breathless laugh.
“It's part of being a father. I know what I'm talking about.”
His choice of words stirs my curiosity as I ladle sauce into the bottom of a casserole dish. “Did Tatum tell you where she's going tonight? I told her about dinner, but she said she already had plans.” I can't put my finger on it, but something about that doesn't seem right. She's spent weeks festering in bed, locked in her rooms, and now she has plans she doesn't want to share with me.
“No, she didn't want to give me any details, but she seemed happier than she's been lately, so I didn't want to give her shit about it.” He kisses my temple, probably because he sees my worries written across my face. “She's a big girl. I learned a long time ago which battles to pick, and this one's not worth it. So long as she's starting to get out in the world again, that's all that matters. Plus, I have Romero tailing her for her safety.”
