Page 29 of For Butter or Worse
The other part of the date that Nina was trying very hard to not think about was the suggestion Tom had left at the bottom of his emailed itinerary.
Try to look like you’re dating this time. Please and thank you.
Photos of them holding hands at Mr. Bones had made the rounds on Twitter, IG fan pages and celebrity-gossip websites. The articles, paired with a “no comment” statement from Tom, had sufficiently caused a lot of speculation as to their relationship status. But as Tom had put it, “I hold hands with my grandma—anyone can do that.” If holding hands with Leo wasn’t enough for him, she didn’t love the alternatives that popped into her head.
“Let me lick the spoon.” Stress-eating was the answer to most problems, anyway.
“That’s what you’re gonna be saying to Leo later tonight.” Sophie gave her an exaggerated wink.
“How did you get to be like this?” Nina dislodged a wire beater from the mixer and took a luxurious lick of the cream-cheese frosting. “We have the same mom, grew up in the same house, shared a bedroom...”
“I’m just lucky.” Sophie removed the other beater. “Are you gonna tell me you didn’t have fun on your last date? I saw the photos—you were both smiling and laughing like crazy. And you can’t act for shit.”
“We were zipping down a slide—of course, we were smiling,” Nina hedged.
“Exactly, you did something silly with him. You don’t normally let yourself be vulnerable like that.” Sophie took a lick of icing.
“What are you talking about?” Did Sophie actually think Nina was so stuffy that she never had any fun? “I went on Jasmine’s motorcycle the other day.”
“Yeah, and that’s your best friend who’s had that bike for five years—it took you that long to loosen up.” Sophie leaned back into the countertop. “So all I’m saying is, whether fake or whatever, dating Leo might actually be good for you.”
“Is your pacemaker short-circuiting? Sounds like you might need another jolt.” Nina flicked her sister’s chest.
“Ow!” Sophie yelped. “Just kidding. I’m part robot. I feel nothing.” She licked the wire beater again and shook her head. “When will the pasta be done?”
Nina was cooking a French pasta called pâtes aux lardons. Curly tagliatelle noodles with Gruyère cheese, bacon and loads of butter—creamy perfection on a plate. Their mom had kept the recipe in heavy rotation because it was simple, delicious and within the budget of a single, working mother.
And being around Leo had given her a craving for that pasta. Something about the way his meaty arms filled out the jacket...okay, stop thinking about Leo’s arms.
“Thirty minutes,” Nina answered, shaking away the thought of Leo.
“And you still want to watchBridget Jones?”
She had not told Sophie that it was a movie Leo had seen. Or that she’d quoted it to him on their last date. Or that Leo did this lip-curl thing that reminded Nina of the smoldering glare Mark Darcy did at the end of the movie.
“Yes, if that sounds good to you?” She felt like she was hiding a secret from her little sister. But Sophie was a romantic, and after calling out Nina for actually enjoying her last date, this would just about send her into a glittery explosion of hope. The last thing she needed was to leave little bread crumbs that would lead to a happily-ever-after house in Sophie’s mind.
And besides, this was their mom’s birthday. Maybe she had Leo on the brain because of their date later, but she wasn’t counting on him for anything other than taking her mind off what day it was.
After Nina plated the pasta, and Sophie iced the cake and cut them slices, they moved into the living room.
“Do you not have a cleaning person or something?”
Nina did not have a cleaning person, especially now that any extra money she had was being poured back into Lyon and paying the staff. “I am the cleaning person.” She carefully curtsied so as not to spill the nearly full wineglasses in her hands. “But I see your point.”
The coffee table was cluttered with cookbooks and recipe cards, a spillover from the office at Lyon, where she’d run out of room completely for her food research. There was also a butcher knife on top of one pile of books, and she honestly wasn’t sure what it was doing there. She placed the wineglasses on the hardwood floor, and gently carried her piles of papers to sit on top of...more piles of papers.
“This is bad.” Sophie cringed as she looked around the living room. “NotHoarders-level bad, but you’re not far from it, either.”
“I don’t spend much time at home,” Nina hedged. Which was true: these days she was either at the restaurant, digging through farmers’ market produce for something inspiring, or working on her image problem with Leo.
“I don’t blame you. I wouldn’t want to die in a cookbook avalanche, either.” Sophie placed the plates on the newly cleared coffee table. Then sat on the couch. She immediately bounced back up in surprise, turned and picked up a heel Nina had left in between the couch cushions. “And I hadn’t considered death by stiletto, but let’s add that in there.”
Nina grabbed the shoe. The one she’d taken off and thrown—apparently on the couch—the night she quit the show. “I keep the kitchen clean. Doesn’t that count for something?”
“Is that what you tell yourself?” Sophie lifted the couch cushions, checking for more unintentional weaponry. When she came up empty, she brushed off the seat with her palm, then sat down. She grabbed the plate and took a bite of cake, finally relaxing. “Mom would never believe that I’ve somehow become the tidy daughter by default.”
Nina smirked. She hadn’t spent enough time with Sophie in the last year—had been too consumed with work. She’d missed having her under the same roof. “Why don’t we hang out more?”
