Page 69 of The Woman with the Wallet

“Garlic, onion, tomatoes, and those green stick things.”

“Green stick things. Or as the rest of us call them, chives,” I said. “Well, you’ve got a good base for a pasta sauce. Stick it in a pot and get it simmering. Then boil some water for pasta.”

“Can I tell Max I made it?” he asked as he dumped the whole lot of veg into a saucepan.

“Yeah. But before you do, add some oil to that.”

“Okay. Like… coconut?”

Jesus.

“Like olive,” I corrected. “While you’re at it, add some water, a teaspoon of sugar, some basil, and salt.”

With any luck, the end result would be halfway edible.

“How about garlic bread?” he asked.

“Look, Chuck, let’s not get ahead of ourselves, alright?” I suggested, going to the coffee maker to get a cup brewing.

“Max still asleep?” Chuck asked, getting a box—of all the choices—pinwheel pasta out of the pantry, making me pluck it out of his hands and replace it with some spaghetti.

“Yeah, she’s had a long couple of days,” I explained, knowing I was guilty for most of it.

With that in mind, I reached for my phone, getting to work on finding a great inn for the girls to sneak away to a town thathad lots of local attractions—from a cider mill that sold ‘the best donuts in the state’ to skiing and lots of shops and restaurants—and went ahead and booked a room, figuring they could be up there in five or six hours once Max told them to pack up and head out, so at most, the room would sit empty for a day.

“How do I know when the noodles are ready?” Chuck asked as he tossed them into the boiling water.

“Just set a timer for eight minutes,” I said, not trusting him to go by a taste test. “Then strain it into this,” I told him, setting the colander into the sink. “And try not to burn yourself. Alright. I’m gonna go wake up Max. She’s gotta be starving,” I told him as I moved down the hallway.

I closed the door as the music got louder again in the kitchen, making Max grumble and roll onto her back.

The covers slipped down her body. Her t-shirt slipped up, exposing a few inches of her stomach as her breasts rose and fell under the thin material. I was suddenly thankful I kept the thermostat cool to sleep because her nipples were pebbled up in the chill of the room.

I forgot all about my empty stomach as I pushed the door lock before moving deeper into the room.

I slid in beside her, just taking a minute to watch how soft she was in her sleep, that tension she usually had in her jaw slacked.

Reaching out, I brushed some of her hair out of her face again, making her nose wrinkle up as she lifted a hand to swat at me.

Finding my hand there, her eyelids slowly slipped open, fluttering for a second, trying to get her bearings before she glanced over to see me there.

“Oh,” she said, her voice thick. “Hey.”

“Hey, sugar. Sleep well?” I asked.

“Your bed doesn’t talk.”

“Uh, what was that?” I asked, worried she might still be asleep.

“My bed moans and groans when I turn over,” she told me with a little yawn. “What time is it?”

“Dinner time. Chuck cooked.”

“Oh, God.”

“I supervised,” I said as she turned to look at me.

“You cook?”

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