Page 60 of Holiday Hostilities

I ran out of time before I had to grab Olivia from the airport, so the counters are a mess of carrot peels, spilled pastina, and parmesan rinds. I set to work cleaning everything up before I turn on the burner under the soup pot. I might have had to call Nonna three times during this preparation process, but I think I pulled it off.

Nonna’s Chicken Pastina soup—fondly known as Italian Penicillin soup—is one of my favorite foods on earth and making a vat of it today seemed like a great idea for two reasons:

One, my nonna totally saw through all my B.S. on the phone the other week and knows I haven’t been making it.

And two, I thought Olivia might like a home-cooked meal because airplane food is the pits.

That is, if she wants some. The bubbling soup smells amazing, if I do say so myself, but Olivia’s had a long day and iscurrently in the shower. Which I’m still absolutely not thinking about.

After she’s done, she’s probably going to go straight to bed. Not sit in my kitchen and drink soup with me, for goodness sake.

This isn’t an episode ofFriends.

My phone buzzes on the counter, and I reach for it. It’s Jake.

Everything go okay?

Yup. She’s all settled in. Think she went to bed.

Thanks again for doing this. Watch out for her, okay?

A flicker of unease moves through me, because some of the thoughts I’ve been having this evening would probably make him want to murder me in cold blood. But I brush it off. Offering her a hot meal counts as watching out for her, right?

I will.

Good, I trust you. Off topic, are you wearing a tux to this gala thing? Reagan said it was black tie, and Sof insists that means a tux.

Glad of the conversation change, I ladle myself a huge bowl of soup, grab my phone, and plod to the living room, texting as I go.

Dude, it definitely means tux. And the gala is around the corner. Did you not buy or rent one yet? You better get on that because it can take a while to get them altered.

“Hey.”

The soft voice coming from across the living room startles the crap out of me, and I jerk my head up from where I’m typing. Unfortunately, my hand jerks too, and I give myself a shower of scalding hot soup.

“Agh!” I yell, dropping the bowl so it hits the floor and breaks. But this is the least of my worries as the broth seeps through my sweatshirt, scorching my skin. “And also ow!”

Quick as a flash, I whip off my hoodie. I’m left standing in the living room in nothing but a pair of gray sweatpants, stranded amongst shards of broken bowl and a sea of soup.

Olivia is standing at the side of the room, staring at me with her eyes bugging. Despite my little spill, I can’t help but notice that her hair is wet and braided over one shoulder, her skin is free of makeup, she’s got her glasses on instead of her contacts, and her current outfit confirms my suspicions: her pajamas consist of flannel pants and a baggy t-shirt.

Not gonna lie, that’s my new favorite kind of pajama.

A trickle of liquid runs down my bare chest, and I wipe at it with my hoodie. I notice that Olivia’s gaze follows my hand.

She swallows. “Um, you okay over there?”

“Soup!” I blurt out uselessly, then explain myself. “I made you soup. My grandmother’s recipe.”

Her eyes meet mine, a little glazed, and she gives her head a slight shake. “That doesn’t really answer my question.”

I clear my throat. “I’m fine, just a little embarrassed you witnessed that.”

“Are you kidding?” She grins. “Hearing Aaron Marino scream like a little girl might be the highlight of my year.”

This makes me properly belly laugh. “Glad to be of service. And the good news is, I think my reflexes were quick enough to save me a second degree burn.” I shrug. “Guess I’ve seen one too many horror movies.”

Olivia raises a brow. “You like horror movies?”

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