“I’m not sure about your choice in stores, but I’ll add shorts to her list.” He typed a message into his cell, tossed it aside, and brandished a spatula. “What sounds good? Omelets or French toast?”
“You’re cooking?” The mere thought of food made me queasy.
“Yes, I do—or did—run a restaurant. I love to cook.” He cracked a smile, but it seemed forced.
“Surprise me.” I needed a plan besides eat, make up an excuse to go upstairs, and slip out the back.
“Call your former boss while I whip something up.” He pulled my cell from his pocket and set it on the table.
“Good idea.” Though I had no clue what I’d say to him, I dialed Alex’s number.
Enzo removed a large skillet from the wire rack and heated it while he pulled various containers from the fridge. He lifted the pan and artistically swirled olive oil onto the hot surface.
The call went to voicemail. “Hi, Alex, this is Shanna. I need to speak to you. It’s urgent.”
“Keep trying him.” Enzo spoke as he chopped veggies.
Temporarily distracted, I moved from the table to the kitchen island. “You weren’t kidding. You do know what you’re doing.”
“I studied culinary arts at Johnson and Wales right out of high school. I wanted to be a chef since I was old enough to sit on a stool and watch Hildie cook.”
“That’s really cool. I can hardly boil water.” I rested my chin in my hand.
“I could teach you the basics.”
“I’m hopeless. That’s why God invented take out.” I hated small talk on a good day, and this was far from a good day. “How are you so calm? How can you shut it off and pretend everything is okay?”
He tossed the veggies into the pan and whisked the eggs. “Given your line of work, you should know revenge is a dish best served cold.”
The tone of his voice and the set of his jaw made me thank my lucky stars my last name wasn’t Lazio.