Page 82 of Rowdy Hearts

“We are?”

“Well, we’re talking about this town. And you’re part of this town. So spill. What’s the deal?”

“Can I drain the pasta while we talk?”

She waved an imperious hand toward the stove, which I took to mean I had permission. So I grabbed the pot and upended the contents into the strainer I already had in the sink.

“Well, the town’s not magical and neither are the people who live here. Trust me, if we were, we’d win a hell of a lot more games.”

I grabbed a dish from the counter and piled pasta on it and showed it to her. She barely glanced at it as she nodded. So I moved back to the stove to load it up with sauce and meatballs.

“The water’s definitely not polluted. We draw straight from the reservoir that’s fed from a spring in the hills.”

I handed her the plate then made my own with twice the amount of food and waved her toward the table at the window at the back of the kitchen. The window overlooked the woods and was my favorite place to eat.

She did a double take at the view before she took a seat and glared at me. Like I’d done something to offend her.

“I mean, come on. Look at that.” She pointed out the window like I’d didn’t know what was out there. “That’s not fair.”

Since I didn’t know exactly what she meant, I turned to see what she was looking at, but it was the same view I saw every morning.

“I mean, yeah, it’s pretty. And no, there are no serial killers in town. At least, not that I know of.”

With a huff, she started to twirl pasta around her fork. “It’s too perfect here.”

Still smiling, I watched her take a bite and waited for her reaction. Maybe I could seduce her with food. I liked to cook, and I liked to feed people with the food I made. I especially wanted to feed her.

“And that’s a bad thing?”

She didn’t answer right away, her lids lowering for a second as my red sauce hit her taste buds.

“Oh my god. Why does this taste so frickin’ good?”

Grinning, I forked up a mouthful, making her wait for my answer. She looked so fucking beautiful with that scowl on her face.

“Trade secret.”

It took her several seconds to respond and, when she did, it was with an “Ugh.”

Laughing, I shook my head. “It’s not really a secret. I add a little Worcestershire sauce with some red wine and a parmesan rind.”

“So, you’re like some secret gourmet chef?”

I snorted. “Hardly. This is like the only thing I do really well. When you live on your own, you either cook or you spend a lot of money on takeout. My mom made sure her kids knew how to cook.”

We ate in silence for a while, but I knew she was still chewing over something.

Finally, her voice soft, she said, “I’m afraid I like it here too much.”

My hand paused with the fork halfway to my mouth. “Why are you afraid of that?”

“Because we have to go home.”

Yeah, that’s not what I wanted to hear. “Why?”

“Because we’re not really supposed to be here.”

“Where are you supposed to be?”

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