Page 8 of Play Action Pass

When she arrived back at her cottage, she saw that she had about six hours to prepare dinner. First, she had to figure out what she was going to cook. Had to be something easy because this would be the first thing she ever attempted. No pressure, indeed.

She sat down on the sofa and brought up YouTube and started playing through cooking videos, finally settling on spaghetti and garlic bread. This was it. The start of a new life. She might not have to work nine to five, but she wasn’t going to be a pampered little princess anymore. If Jacoby’s death taught her anything, it was that she needed to be self-reliant and a good person. A good, self-reliant person, because nobody made it out alive.

Once she had everything prepped, she glanced at the clock and discovered she had another five hours to wait and decided to take a long walk on the beach. Slipping flip-flops on, she headed down to the shoreline and watched the ocean in all its glory. It was there long before her and would be there longafter, which made it an excellent place to scatter her brother’s ashes. As long as the ocean lasted, so too would Jacoby.

She wasn’t quite ready, though, to let him go.

Slipping off her shoes, she carried them as she walked along the damp sand. Occasionally, the waves would be a little more forceful, and soaked the bottom of her linen pants. She found seashells, seaweed, tiny crabs burrowing into the sand. A lot more garbage than she expected. Guess the people posting about all the plastic floating in the ocean were correct. She saw small boats bobbing on the horizon, seagulls flying around, some even dive-bombing for the little crabs.

As she headed back, peace settled over her. Back home in New York City, she constantly had to stay on her guard. Against her parents, the paparazzi, strangers she didn’t even know, even her friends. Whenever she did something stupid it was splashed not only over social media, but on the gossip magazines. Try growing up with a bazillion cameras trained on every move you made. Jacoby hated that. Maybethat’swhy he had come here.

Entering her cottage, she hurried to take a shower, dressing in another set of drawstring linen pants and a Boho lace top. Then she turned on YouTube and prepared to cook. Water boiling, check. Bread covered in butter and garlic powder, check.

“What doesal dentemean?” she muttered to herself and had to look up the meaning. “To the tooth? What do teeth have to do with pasta? Oh.Al dentepasta is firm when bitten without being hard or chalky. That shouldn’t be too hard to figure out.”

Twenty minutes later, she was eating those words. Apparently, it was that hard.

“What the hell is wrong with the pasta? Damn it,” she muttered to herself. “This is supposed to be easy. Why is it clumped together?”

While she was Googling the mishap, a knock sounded on her door and she gave a little groan. Great. He was going torealize she was stupid. Throwing the towel on the island, she looked out the peephole and saw Coleson. Maybe if she didn’t answer he’d think she wasn’t home.

“That probably would’ve worked if you hadn’t said it out loud,” he said through the door.

Rolling her eyes she opened the door. “It’s not what you think.”

“If you don’t want to have dinner with me, no worries—”

“It’s not that, I just … well, um, I don’t know how to cook.”

He blinked and amusement filled his blue eyes. “What were you attempting?”

“Spaghetti.”

He bit his bottom lip to keep from smiling, but failed miserably. She sighed and shook her head, standing aside to let him in.

“It’s okay to laugh. I’m hopeless in the kitchen.”

“I get it,” Coleson said as he stepped inside. He handed her a bottle of red wine. Emmie took it and closed the door behind him. “Fast food is far easier.”

She grew up with a chef cooking amazing dishes, and since she was supposed to be a normal girl, couldn’t admit she never had fast food. “Yeah. You too?”

“Sometimes,” he replied as he rolled up his sleeves. “Okay, let’s see what we have.”

He picked up pans and thew away the clump of spaghetti in the trash. He rinsed out the saucepan that had burnt pasta sauce. He tossed the blackened garlic bread. Washing his hands, he started the meal over. Just took over her kitchen as he moved fluently from sink to stove to oven.

“Why don’t you pour us a glass of wine while I get this sorted out?” he suggested.

“That I can do,” she said and grabbed a corkscrew to open the bottle. She poured out a healthy amount and handed him aglass.

“Thank you,” he said.

She took her wineglass and sat on one of the island stools. “I feel bad that I invited you over a meal, and now you’re making that meal.”

He shrugged. “I’m used to cooking. My mother…” Coleson hesitated, the muscles of his jaw moving as he clenched and unclenched his teeth.

Emmie got the impression it was a touchy subject, and she didn’t want to make him feel self-conscious.

“My mother can’t even microwave a cup of water,” she said, filling the silence. “Probably doesn’t even know what a microwave is. She’s spoiled and entitled, and utterly exhausting.”

---