Page 45 of On the Line

She gives me an unimpressed look. “Are youtryingto make me feel worse?”

I chuckle and take her hand. “Come on, I’ll make you something to eat before we go to bed.”

I said that so casually—impressed with my delivery—when inside, my chest squeezes with an ache I can only describe as yearning.

Chill,Ozzy.

I try to muster up a believable lie to help with my nerves while I bring her into the kitchen. I land on: She’s just another girl.

But I know in reality, she’s notjustanything.

She’s James Ferdinand. And I’m down bad.

“It’s okay, I’m not?—”

“When was the last time you ate?”

Sheepishly, she answers, “Staff meal.”

“That was ten hours ago.” I prop her on a stool near the balcony door. “I’m feeding you.”

Her shy smile is confirmation enough. I open the fridge and do a quick survey. There’s fresh agnolotti that I broughthome from Orso yesterday. Noticing we still have some of that white wine we use for cooking, I get inspired.

“You like pasta?” I ask while I take out butter, shallots, garlic, red chili, and pecorino.

Another one of her cute little snorts. “Who doesn’t.”

I shoot her a smile. “True.” Taking a glass from the cupboard, I pour some water and hand it to her. “Here, drink this.”

She takes it eagerly. “Why are you so good at this?” she mutters into the glass, taking a large gulp.

“At what? Cooking?” I say distractedly, putting a pan on the stove.

“No.” She snickers, and I can tell she’s still drunk. “At taking care of people.”

“Oh, uh–” I rub the back of my neck. “Oldest of four. I guess it’s just in my DNA.”

“Oldest of four?” James says with an adorable bewildered look, small strands of pink hair framing her face. “What’s that like? I always wanted a sibling.”

“It feels …”Like the biggest responsibility I’ve ever had to carry on my shoulders.“Like always having someone on your team. Especially when it comes to the weird shit our parents do, makes you feel less crazy, I guess?”

“Shitty parents,” she flatly states, nodding in agreement. “Same.”

I burst out laughing, shaking my head while I cut some chilis. “Yeah, something like that.”

After a beat, she asks, “You always lived in Marsford Bay?”

“Born and raised.” I shoot her a teasing look. “Down in Pecket, far away from where you grew up, princess.”

“Never been.” By the innocent look she gives me, I can tell she doesn’t have a clue how bad of a reputation thatneighborhood has. I suddenly realize how wide the chasm is between how we both grew up.

My stomach sinks. I’m just a pit stop for her.

It’s inevitable, one day she’ll go back to her world. She doesn’t belong here. Especially with a guy like me, a line cook from the wrong side of the tracks who can barely make ends meet.

We both fall silent while I finish cooking the pasta. She studies me the whole time, and I find it hard to deny how calming it feels to have her here in my kitchen, watching me cook.

Ten minutes later, I grate some pecorino over the pasta and hand her a bowl. Her face lights up when she takes it, still sitting on the stool. “Thank you,” she sing-songs, a pleased hum leaving her lips when she takes her first bite.

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