Page 80 of Love Arranged
We both know she’s lying, but I don’t push, instead holding out the permanent marker so she can write my name across the front of the apron. When it’s my turn to do the same, I’m questioning if I can make it through the four letters of her name without making a fool of myself.
In the middle of writing the lettery, her body goes rigid. I look around for what threatened her happiness and easily locate the source.
Cazzo.
Richard, Trevor Ludlow’s younger, less charismaticbrother, walks into the room with a blonde woman on his arm. She hangs on to him and bats her lashes at everyone in the vicinity.
He immediately zones in on us.
“Ignore him.” I step in front of her, blocking his view of Lily as Maria starts talking about the history of pasta and the basic instructions of tonight’s class before assigning us to our tables.
Lily and I are sent to one in a corner nearest the window. It gives us privacy from the other couples while simultaneously allowing people walking by the class to see us.
The location is perfect…right up until Richard and his date get set up at a station parallel to ours. I can feel his attention focused on us, and I don’t like it one bit, but I do my best to forget about him.
My issues are with his brother, not him, although I’m starting to have a problem with the youngest Ludlow, who keeps glancing over at Lily.
I check our ingredients for tonight’s dinner and dessert before Lily and I start working on our dough.
“How often do you make fresh pasta?” she asks as I crack an egg over my well of flour.
“Never.”
She lets out a fake gasp of outrage. “I thought you were Italian.”
I grab a pinch of flour and flick it at her face.
With a giggle, she wipes her flour-speckled cheek. She ends up missing a spot, so I brush it away. A camera flash startles us both, and we look over to see Maria winking. Shechecks the photo before scurrying away with a promise to send me a copy.
Lily eyes me rolling the dough into a ball while her flour-egg combo remains untouched. “When’s the last time you did this?”
I need a second to think of a response. “Sometime after I moved to Vegas. One of the nannies wanted me to”—stop crying—“feel comfortable.”
Although all it did was make me misshome.
Her eyes soften, and I wonder if she can read between the lines of my answer.
“Did your parents teach you?” she asks, her gentle voice soothing the scratchiness in my throat at the mention of them.
I look at my ball of dough. “Yes, and once I learned, I helped them make pasta every Friday afterward.”
She gives my bicep a squeeze, leaving a dusty handprint on my skin. “Sounds like a tradition I can get behind.”
“Don’t get me started on traditions,” I tease, surprised by my own lightheartedness. Usually I avoid talking about my parents, but with Lily, I don’t even notice, most likely because the typical heaviness I feel whenever I think about them is dormant.
Which is probably why I tell her about their yearly sauce-day tradition.
“As a little kid, I hated every second of it,” I say after explaining the concept, my throat thick with emotion. If I could go back, I would’ve spent my time enjoying my parents’ company rather than complaining.
I close my eyes and picture my mom and dad workingoutside, their backs hunched as they took turns stirring the pot full of tomatoes. Back then, life was simple, and I didn’t have the same contamination worries or concerns about food prep.
“Do you have their recipe somewhere? I’d love to try it,” she asks.
No, because my uncle donated or discarded most of my father’s possessions—another unforgivable act to add to his never-ending list.
“Before…you know…my parents had this recipe book.” I have no idea why I am sharing so much about myself, but I can’t seem to stop myself as I continue. “They’d always try new ones, and if they liked it enough, they’d write it down.”
I regret sharing such a small detail about myself, especially when she looks at me with an expression I’ve learned to recognize.
