Page 44 of Broken Pieces
Oh my.“I miei antenati si saranno rivoltando nelle tombe mentre noi parliamo.”
She tilts her head, confused. “I have no idea what you just said, I just know it sounded Italian.”
I let out a soft laugh before translating, “My ancestors are rolling in their graves as we speak.”
“Oh, right,” she laughs. “Because you’re Italian. Duh. I knew that.”
“SÌ.”Yes.
“Since I know a bit of Spanish, and I think the languages are similar, I’m going to assume you said yes. It’s a shame I don’t know the language, because I enjoy going to Italy very much.”
“Well, yeah. The artistry world in Italy is one of the best, even though people debate whether it'sactually the UK.”
She shakes her head. “I agree with you. The culture and how preserved things are in Italy is unmatched.”
“Yeah, plus, you know, Italians, we’re as sexy as they come,” I joke with a playful wink.
She picks up the box of pasta and throws it at me as she murmurs something along the lines ofjerkandyou wish.
I laugh, gathering all the ingredients and taking out an apron from one of the bags and putting it on.
She starts laughing, or more like… wheezing, really. “You brought anapron?” She snorts in between laughs, making me laugh now. “Okay, Martha Stewart. I see you.”
The joke’s on her, because I brought something for her as well. As I take out said item with a grin plastered all over my face, I walk toward her.
She takes a few steps back. “No! I am not putting that on,” she says with a shriek.
My shoulders shake as I laugh. “You have to. It’s the rule.”
“Who says!?” she yells.
“I do.” I keep laughing as I plaster the chef hat on top of her head.
She takes out her phone to take a look. “I look ridiculous.”
I clear my throat as I pick up the pasta box that fell on the floor. “You could never. You look beautiful.”
Placing the box on the counter, I steal a glance at her. Her shoulders are stiff and her cheeks are colored with thatpretty soft scarlet all over. I swiftly grab her phone and before she has a moment to react I snap a picture of her. She gasps in disbelief as she tries to grab her phone, but I am way taller than her, so it’s easy to keep it out of her reach. I send the picture to myself for keepsake, then give her the phone back.
“You better delete that picture!” she demands, pointing one finger at me.
“Nope.Now,enough complaining, let’s cook,” I say as I pat her chef hat.
She puffs, but brings out the pots and pans I ask her for, and we get started on the sauce right away. She’s a lousy learner, so I’m definitely bringing something more challenging next time just to mess with her.
Next time?Not sure what is wrong with me, but spending time with her outside of work is turning out to be nice and a change of pace. A smile escapes me as she drops some tomato paste in the pan and watches it like a hawk, so it turns out the right color as I instructed when I made the sauce on my own so she could take her own notes and ask any questions. It’s her turn this time around, and she keeps insisting that she can do it without any guidance. She scrunches her nose in a cute way every time she’s confused, then shrugs and continues to dump the ingredients.
“Pretty sure that was a little too much salt,” I point out.
“Well, I like saltythings.”
I laugh. “You can never accept when you’re wrong, can you?”
She flips me off as she keeps throwing the ingredients and scrunching her face. It’s fucking hilarious.
My heart quickens at the sight of her, so beautiful and carefree. Dare I say she lookshappy,and knowing I was able to get a smile out of her and help her have fun makes me really fucking happy too. I haven’t felt this happy and relaxed in, well, ever. This is a moment I want to burn into my memory, preserve it like a precious piece of gold. No amount of money or success can compare to what making her happy feels like.
When we’re finally done, we exchange plates as we sit down to eat. By looking at the plate, it looks promising, but I’m ninety-nine percent sure she put in way too much salt, so I’m a little nervous.
