Page 33 of Taking Care of the Target

She startled, the spice container hitting the oven and then landing on the floor, sending tiny green leaves out in a circle.

Vince reached down and picked it up. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to scare you.”

“No worries. Just toss it over—I didn’t actually get any basil in the pan.”

He threw it, and she snatched it out of the air.

“And I thought your cooking magic just came from ingredients,” he said.

With a laugh, she stirred whatever heavenly sauce she had in the skillet. Another pot sat on the back burner, bubbling, but he couldn’t see inside of it. “When we first started tossing, I dropped everything, and our cans wouldn’t open right because the lids were all dented.”

“We?”

“My dad and me. After eating Mac and Cheese or Ramen noodles every night for years, I finally told him it was time for both of us to learn to cook. Right around that time, I’d…” She glanced down, embarrassment coloring her cheeks. “I failed P.E. Like, it was me and all of the overweight kids lagging behind, dropping balls, and hanging on the bar with our arms shaking instead of being able to do pull-ups.

“Part of it was because I needed glasses and just didn’t realize it.” She pushed her glasses up her nose. “But mostly my coordination was crap and sports weren’t really my thing.”

He’d seen her balance trays most servers didn’t dare take on. Not to mention the can tossing—he wondered if he could bump it up on his forearm and catch it like that.

“While my dad and I cooked, we tossed cans around until I could catch them, flip them, and make food out of them.” A proud smile curved her lips. “Think I’ve got a career as a cook-slash-juggler?”

Vince moved behind her and wrapped his arms around her waist, thinking that she fit perfectly against him. “I’m not sure how well juggling chefs get paid, but I think you might consider culinary school. You obviously like to cook, and you’re good at it.”

She spun around, her eyebrows all scrunched up, and he thought he’d said something wrong. Was telling a woman she could cook sexist these days? He’d say the same thing to a dude who could cook like that. He’d just do it without the hugging part.

“Why didn’t I ever think of that? Every time I think about college I always picture myself ending up at a desk, even though it never really appealed to me. I guess I figured the right career path would magically jump out at me when the time was right. But culinary school…I’m totally looking into that.”

Cassie tipped onto her toes and kissed his cheek. “You’re a genius.”

“No one’s ever accused me of that before.”

She made a cute little squeal noise and turned back to her sauce. “Salt,” she said, pointing at the shaker next to him. Figuring there’d be a mess if he hurled it too hard, he executed more of a soft lob. She easily caught it and added several shakes to the sauce. “Definitely more fun with two jugglers in the kitchen.”

After a few minutes of stirring the simmering mixture, she lifted out a spoonful, blew on it, and sipped. Then she extended it to him. “Does it need more…something?”

Vince tasted the red sauce—Rossi’s specialized in Italian dishes, and Cassie’s was still the best marinara he’d ever had. “It’s perfect.”

She pressed her lips together, clearly deep in thought, and then her eyes widened. “Needs just a hint of fennel. Then it’ll be extra perfect.” The cupboard door opened a bit rough—he’d have to bring in a screwdriver and tighten the hinges—and she searched through all the plastic and glass containers.

“Someday I’m going to have a fancy spice rack that’s super organiz—there it is.” She took out the fennel, flashed him a smile, and flipped the bottle end over end before adding a few shakes to the sauce.

And he realized that sometime during the past week, she’d turned him into one of those sappy fools who’d do anything for their girl.

Chapter Seventeen

The hairs on the back of Cassie’s neck rose as she walked down the sidewalk, the instinctual, unmistakable feeling of being watched setting off alarms. A quick, subtle glance revealed a silver sedan a few cars back. Hadn’t it been parked in front of her apartment complex when she’d come out?

Maybe I’m just being paranoid.

Of course, the last time I thought that I got shot at.She cut across the block, detouring from her usual route—she was meeting Tom at the Deli, but it was only a couple of shops down from McCarthy’s, so the walk was the same, just about five minutes longer.

She glanced behind her and let out a relieved breath when the car didn’t follow. One more block down; she checked over her shoulder.

The same silver car turned the corner.

Forgoing all attempts to be covert or play it cool, she jogged toward the busier street up ahead, her heartbeat rising to match the rapid thump of her footsteps.Aren’t you supposed to run in zig-zags if people shoot at you?

Not that it would’ve worked the last time she’d been shot at.

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