Page 46 of Can't Kiss the Chef

“Well, don’t rush into anything, Lola. Boys don’t know what a good woman looks like.”

“You were pregnant with my mom at my age.”

I know she is flicking her wrist, a dismissive look plastered on her face.

“Well, those were—” I think she finishes her sentence withdifferent times,but I am distracted. Byron walks through my front door wearing a backward-facing baseball cap—why does that look so damn hot— and arms full of grocery bags.

He drops them on the opposite end of the counter and starts unloading them.

“Byron just got here, Nonna. We have to start cooking.”

“Byron is there, well don’t do–” I end the phone call before Byron hears whatever embarrassing thing was about to come out of her mouth.

“Who did you just rush off the phone with?” Byron asks as he bends to hug me. My face gets buried in his chest. Our height difference is exaggerated since I don’t have on my customary heels. Running shoes are better for long hours in the kitchen.

Just a whiff of his masculine cologne makes me feel like I’m being wrapped in my favorite blanket on a cold winter day.

“Just my Nonna. I had a recipe question for her.”

Byron lets out a low laugh. “I called Mrs. Holloway on my way here. She told me I better do the family justice.”

“Why do Italians make it feel like the world is going to end if you do their recipes injustice.” I pull out an extra cutting board and some knives for Byron. “Do you have more bags you need to bring in?”

“No, I have it all here.” He points to the two reusable bags on the counter. “I forgot something in the car. Do you mind going to grab it for me?”

I’m still in my slippers when I get to his car door. It’s a sunny, dry fall day, plus they’re old and I honestly should consider investing in a new pair.

“Mia.” I whisper. She has her face pushed against the window. I’m embarrassed when a few tears escape. I jog to the car and open the door she is pawing at. Puppy kisses scatter my face. If there is one thing I miss about being a pre-vet major, it’s spending my days loving on animals.

I clip on the leash Byron left on the seat and walk her in. Byron and I first started hanging out right before he found Mia. We were already friendly but got catapulted into a new level of friendship after Ivy locked herself in Jasper’s bathroom. After our best friends finally admitted that they liked each other that night, the drama ended, and we all just had fun.

I was having the time of my life sandwiched between strangers on the sticky dance floor. An All-American Rejects classic was playing just loud enough to drown out my thoughts, when Byron found me on the dance floor. He came from behind and had to lower his head to my ear so I could hear him and saidthank god they figured out their bullshit.

The rest of the night was like my own little comedy show. Non-stop laughter while we tried to dodge the curious eyes of our friends.

I was newly single. I jumped into a relationship with the first guy that showed interest. Freshman year was all about sticking it to my parents.There was no doubt they would hate the six-one bass player with piercings. In hindsight the relationship was nothing more than a superficial one and the two days it took me to get over him is proof of that.

Byron’s big frame hid mine that whole night. There wasn’t a moment I wasn’t laughing. He’d whisper stories in my ear that he made up about the couples on the dance floor.

One night became two and suddenly we were trying to find as much time as possible to spend with each other.

When I told him I didn’t want to jump into anything serious he said we could go at my pace.

All that to say, I spent a lot of time last year cuddled in Byron’s arms while Mia was cuddled in mine.

She does her business on our front lawn before I scoop her up and carry her like a baby back into the house.

“What’s wrong Lo?”

My bottom lip starts to tremble. I hate crying. It makes me look vulnerable, but Byron didn’t have to bring Mia here. He brought her over because he knew how happy it would make me.

Byron’s face falls when he sees me crying. He drops the spices he has in his hand and rushes over.

“Don’t cry, Pipsqueak,” his voice is just above a whisper as he wipes away my rogue tears.

“These are happy tears. I can’t believe you brought her here.”

“We missed cooking with you,” he says, like that isn’t the sweetest thing anybody has ever said to me.

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