Page 43 of Hat Trick

Nope, I have the oh-so-lovely good fortune of watching my mother and Stephen glance at each other through all of the mayhem and fall in love like some sort of screwed-up Lady-and-the-Tramp replay over a shared plate ofpasta.

“Fuck me,” Stephen mutters, “but you are so damn hot when you get all angry like that,Addie.”

My mother doesn’t even spare me a glance as she saunters around the head of the table, hips swaying with pure exaggeration. “I want to lick that sauce right offyou.”

His arms go wide. “I’m all yours,babe.”

“You definitely are.” She hooks one finger into the collar of his shirt, and he goes without prompting, trailing behind her like a lostpuppy.

“Leave me the Burberry pie, Gwen!” is the only good-night I receive as they disappear around thecorner.

There’s no way I’m leaving the Burberry pie or blueberry pie oranypie after that showdown. I collapse into my seat and stare at what remains of the dinner I hoped would bring my mom and Icloser.

Simply put, it looks like a murderscene.

And if we’re being all metaphorical here, that’s exactly how my relationship with my mom feels rightnow.

Without giving myself the chance to second-guess everything, I reach into my cardigan pocket for my phone. There’s a missed text from Charlie asking how the dinner went, and I send her a quick message promising to offer a recap tomorrow—withwine.

I try to ignore the way my heart rate picks up speed as I thumb down to Marshall’s contact and hit CALL. My butt scoots a little farther down in the chair as I listen to the ringtone and play with my discarded dinnernapkin.

Maybe he’s notaround?

He could be at practice. Maybe he’s in transit fromToronto?

I’m so lost in my thoughts that the sound of his smooth voice over the phone sends a jolt throughme.

“Hey,you.”

Okay, maybe it’s just me, but I’ve watched enough TV to know that those two little words said by a sexy guy are kryptonite to a female’s piece of mind. Beneath the table, I kick off my stilettos and fold my feet under me on theseat.

“Hey.” I eye the dining table. “I have a random question foryou.”

“Shoot.”

I love how straightforward he is. I take a deep breath. “Have you ever wondered what it’s like to swim inlasagna?”

Marshall doesn’t even miss a beat. “It’s been awhile since I left my lasagna-swimming days behind. But they were strong, once upon atime.”

I nod, even though he can’t see me, and try to ignore the warmth spreading through my veins. His good humor is contagious, and I know it was the right move to call him.Why haven’t I done this before?Knotting the napkin into a ball, I say, “I’m swimming in it rightnow.”

Through the receiver, I hear masculine voices in the background. I wonder if they’re still at the airport, in transit back from Toronto. There’s the sound of a door clicking shut and then all that remains is the sound of his voice—which is heavy with mischief. “Tell me you at least drenched yourself in Parmesancheese.”

And just like that, I grin. I can’t even help it. Tipping my head back against the chair, I allow myself to imagine Marshall here with me, and that vision is . . . well, to be honest, it’s lovely. “And ricotta,” I say, trying to hold back a laugh, “it wouldn’t be lasagna without ricottatoo.”

“Damn, aren’t you my kind ofwoman?”

Yes, I want to tell him,yes I am. The admission tangles on my tongue but all that slips out into existence is a very quiet, “I want tobe.”

There’s a small pause. It’s long enough to throw my heart rate into triple-time and set off a stampede ofwhat were you thinking?!thoughts. I know that heclaimedto want my heart, but maybe he feels differently now that I’m actively opening up to him? Maybe he’s spent the last six years putting me on this pedestal of his own making . . . only to realize now that I’m not all he thought Iwas.

I laugh awkwardly, a choked sound that sounds miserable even to my ownears.

There’s nothing quite like a bout of self-examination while you wait for your crush to speak to make you feel on top of the world—not.

I wonder how much worse it would get if I asked Marshall to never let me go, Rose-Jackstyle.

Sobad.

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