Page 90 of I Am Sin

“All right.” I shake my head. “But I’m happy to help if you need it.”

He looks down at the music. “You’re already doing enough, letting me stay here.”

I’m not sure how to respond to that, so I say nothing and turn back to the stove.

I feel Dragon’s eyes on me as I heat up a jar of spaghetti sauce on the stove and boil water for the pasta.

I slice up some mushrooms for the sauce.

It’ll be a veggie sauce tonight since I didn’t get any ground beef out of the freezer. Guess I’ve been preoccupied about the new job.

Not to mention all the sex with the man I’m now cooking dinner for.

I look up. Dragon is getting up from the counter.

I hope he likes mushrooms. I should have asked before I added them. I love a good mushroom sauce. It’s as savory as meat with a lot fewer calories.

Plus, I ate more pizza than I should have last night. Luckily the excess cheese didn’t bother me much, but unlike my sister, Brianna, I have to watch my weight. And yeah, that pisses me off.

Once everything’s ready, I grab a couple of plates and place a hearty portion of pasta on one for Dragon, cover it with sauce, and add a few slices of Italian bread from the store. He’s in the living area, looking at the music he bought.

“It’s ready,” I say. I set it on my small kitchen table.

Then I plate my own dinner, fill two glasses of water, and bring them all over to the table.

Dragon takes a seat in front of his plate. “Looks great.”

Before I sit down, “I forgot napkins. Just a minute.” I head back in the kitchen, grab the napkins out of their holder, and bring a few back to the table. I hand one to him. “Here you go.”

He nods and places the napkin on his lap.

Then he twirls the spaghetti onto his fork like a champ.

I’m a little mesmerized by it.

I never mastered that. I cut my spaghetti and eat it with a fork.

“Where did you learn to do that?” I ask after he swallows.

“Do what?”

“Twirl your spaghetti on a fork like that.”

He thinks for a minute. “My mother. She’s Italian.” He frowns. “OrwasItalian. I don’t know if she’s alive or not.”

I nearly drop my jaw. Did he just open up to me about something?

He looks back down at his plate. Apparently he’s done talking.

“So your parents…”

“I don’t talk about my parents,” he says to his plate.

“Oh, okay,” I say. “Sorry.”

Then I berate myself internally. What am I sorry for? He brought it up.

“I could never master it. My aunt Marjorie’s a chef, and she does a mean Italian dinner. She’s tried to show me time and time again since I was a little kid how to do it. But every time I tried, I either got a bunch of spaghetti strands hanging down, or the amount on my fork would be way too big to fit into my mouth.”

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