Page 29 of Wayward
I nod, because I don’t need a food processor when making pasta for six. But I slide the knife off the board and move over to the doors. With my left hand, I rummage about with the food processor while I slide the knife into my pocket. I bring theprocessor out and set it on the counter. “Fuck, this is filthy. I’ll just make it by hand.”
“Cool. Put the knife back on the counter,” Collins says, his hand on the grip of his gun.
I take it out and put it in the sink.
“Get busy, clock’s ticking.”
I’m forty-five minutes in. The pasta is resting, and the sauce is done. It’s coming out fantastic. And more than once, I almost smile. I whip up a second batch. Because I have a feeling I’m going to need to feed more than just Z.
The second batch of pasta is resting and I’m cleaning underneath where the forty-seven hot sauce bottles had been when Z saunters in.
The water’s boiling, and I’ve got plates ready to go?plates that I rewashed.
“It smells good in here.” He stops next to Collins. “You can go.” Z cocks his head to the door. Holloway’s standing in the stew’s pantry.
“Yes, sir,” Collins says.
I glance at the clock. It’s five. If I was the chef of this yacht, I’d be up now, making muffins and fresh croissants.
It’s occurred to me more than once that I might be making my last meal. There’s a quick flash that I should have taken more time doing it. But fuck, I always take the right amount of time doing what needs to be done.
“I’ll have a plate for you in two minutes.” I drop the pasta into the water.
He leans over the stove, watching the pasta swirl around. “Just a small taste.”
“Is this breakfast?” I ask.
“Is there ever a wrong time for good Italian food?”
“No, there’s not.” I plate him up a heaping portion and slide it over the counter. I haven’t seen a stew since I’ve been in the kitchen, and I haven’t found the eating utensils either.
Z ducks into the stew pantry and comes back with two sets. I plate up three more plates.
“Expecting friends?” He cocks an eyebrow.
“Habit,” I say.
“Holloway, you want one?”
“I’m good.” The guard crosses his arms over his chest.
Z twirls his pasta around in his spoon and takes a bite. “Mmm, that’s fucking fantastic. Holloway, take this.” Z picks up an extra plate and shoves it at Holloway.
“Yes, sir.” Holloway frowns at the plate, and then his eyes flick to me. He’s not won over, not yet. But he hasn’t tasted it yet. He takes a bite.
“Good, right?”
“Yes. It’s good.” He puts the plate down on the counter in the stew pantry.
“This is fantastic. I can see why the Russian raved about you so much.” Z takes another bite. “Why did you leave him, anyway?”
“Stylistic differences.” I’m not going to say anything else. I’m still not sure if he’s close or just in the same line of business as the old bastard.
Z nods. And I’m fucking grateful he doesn’t push harder. “You know why I had you make this?”
“You were hungry?”
“No, I needed your genius bosun to have more motivation to translate the rest of Rockwell’s notebook. I ordered Dakota to take you to the swim deck and shoot you. He agreed, but there was a twitch in his eye. Something I hadn’t seen before. I inquired. And he said he’d never get to taste your pasta la genie. I was hungry, and now here we are.”
