Page 15 of The Liar

I often ate pizza with my hands, but that didn’t seem appropriate for the vibe of the evening. Or at least, not for the vibe I was trying to achieve.

“Do you remember the first time we shared a pizza?” I asked, hoping to remind her of those wonderful days and nights we’d shared together on a train hurtling through the Canadian mountainside. I’d arrived at the train station thinking of her as nothing more than a job, but by the time we’d reached our destination, I’d realized I was in big trouble.

“That was good.” She followed my lead, cutting her pizza and chasing down a bite with wine. “But not as good as yours.”

I smirked, and hope unfurled in my gut. If she could compliment me, perhaps all wasn’t lost. “You flatterer.”

“Mamma Gallo raised her son to know proper Italian cuisine,” she reminded me.

My heart sank. Yes, my mamma had taught me to cook, but Joanna didn’t know nearly as much about her as she thought she did.

“What is it?” she asked, concerned.

I shook my head. “Nothing. I’m fine.”

She didn’t look convinced, but she let me get away with the lie. “Did you have a good day?”

“Of course. I cooked one of my favorite foods and now I’m eating dinner with my incredible wife.”

She arched an eyebrow. “What did you get up to this morning?”

“I worked out.” Truth. “Ran a few errands. I had to pick up some groceries for dinner.” Also technically true. It didn’t matter that I left out a few of the errands. “And then I made a tiramisu.”

“Tiramisu?” She glanced at the pizza. “I’d better be careful not to eat too much of this. I have no doubt that if your mamma taught you the recipe, it will be the best I’ve ever tasted.”

I laughed. “That’s a lot to live up to.”

She looked at me from beneath her eyelashes. “I know you’re good for it.”

Damn. Did she know what that did to me? She was pushing all my buttons, and part of me enjoyed that, but the rest knew how much it would hurt when she decided she was done with me. I supposed the pain was what I got for falling for the woman I set out to target.

If that wasn’t karma, I didn’t know what was.

The conversation lulled as we ate our meal and emptiedour wine glasses. I refilled them but made a mental note not to serve myself anymore. If I drank too much, I risked giving away more than I wanted to Joanna.

In the entirety of our relationship, she’d never seen me drunk. Only acting. I’d considered telling her I was a sober alcoholic, so I’d have an excuse to avoid alcohol completely, but that would make her ask questions about my past, and it was more important to keep her from prying into my history than to avoid sharing an occasional drink.

When we’d eaten as much pizza as we could, I packed away the leftovers and presented Joanna with a piece of tiramisu.

She groaned. “It looks amazing. You’ve got to stop feeding me like this or I won’t fit into my work clothes anymore.”

“Uh-huh.” I rolled my eyes at the absurdity of her statement. Not only did she have an incredible metabolism, but she exercised regularly and sparred with some of her colleagues every week. She was far from at risk of gaining weight. Not that I’d care if she did. Joanna would be incredible no matter what shape she was in.

I passed her a spoon and reached for the tiramisu between us. She snatched the plate away and glared at me.

“Get your own,” she grumbled. “This is mine.”

Shaking my head, I returned to the kitchen and served myself a separate piece.

“Good?” I asked.

“The best.” She spoke around a mouthful of cake and cream. “I’m going to need this for my birthday.”

“Anything for you.”

Well, almost anything. I still couldn’t tell her the truth.

We polished off our plates and set our cutlery down. She wiped the corners of her mouth on a napkin.

---