Page 12 of Filthy and the Beast

But still, nothing. When I try to imagine my future, I can’t envision anything beyond Enzo’s cavernous old house.

While the sauce bubbles on the stove, I find a big casserole dish and layer up the ingredients with rice. It’s an improvised meal, vegetarian and extra-loaded with cheese and saucy goodness in case Enzo has an attitude about meatless food.

I sense something behind me. When I turn, he’s standing at the end of the kitchen, casting a shadow.

“Hello there.” Smiling, I toss the dish in the oven. “You’re just in time. I’m conjuring up some of my Super-Secret Aubergine Bake.” So secret even I won’t remember how I made it. “More than enough for two, but you have to eat with me to get your share.”

Enzo tightens his brow. He’s in sweatpants and a t-shirt, like always, but he’s trimmed his scruffy beard down closer to the stubble.

Damn. He is quite handsome.

I wonder if I could get him into a suit. Just for fun. I’ve got a few weeks to try before this gig is up.

If I can get him in a suit, I can probably get him in pink socks, too.

Enzo frowns.

“Not up for a dinner date?” Leaning back on the counter, I cross my arms. “I’ll try not to be offended. But you did leave food out for me a couple times, and you barely let me do anything to take care of you. Would it really kill you to sit down and enjoy my tomatoes?”

His flat mouth twitches toward a smile. Then the doorbell rings out, actual chimes sounding throughout the house. “Dinner,” Enzo grunts and starts toward the doorway, moving slowly but with a bit more ease than usual.

I sigh, more disappointed than I have the right to be. “I guess if you’ve already ordered.”

The dogs pass through the kitchen on their way to the front and return with Enzo, who carries two large paper bags. “Ordered extra.” He plops the bags on the counter and tears them open.

A Mediterranean feast appears: pickles and pita and grape leaves, kabobs and hummus and fried onions, so much food it’s like he read the menu and saidyes.

I gasp. “We cooked for each other and our meals perfectly complement!” I laugh, amazed at the coincidence. “That’s so cute!”

Enzo frowns. “That’s not what happened.”

Though he didn't agree to eat with me, I grab plates, choosing to plow ahead. “Mrs. Aubergine in the oven needs a minute for her flavors to mingle. We can start on the delivery while we wait.”

The dogs all sit around the table. Enzo sighs.

“Fine.” He takes a plate. “Fine.”

I snatch the plate back from his hands before he can react. “Let me get this for you. Sit.”

“Standing is better for my back.”

“Then stand!” I plate his food for him. “We’ll eat at the counter. Just stop bending over and straining yourself.”

His jaw twitches, but he knows I’m right.

“I’ve been looking at all your boxing paraphernalia. Paraphernalia? Memorabilia.” I scoop some hummus onto the plate and glance at him. “Sounds like you were an amazing fighter. I got to thinking about boxing so much I even considered taking a self-defense class at the gym you recommended. Except I know boxing isn’t going to be my profession, and I told myself no more recreational classes until I figure out my career path.”

Enzo studies me. “Uh-huh,” he finally says, and I give him the plate, now loaded.

“Do you still box? I know you ended your professional career, but for fun? Exercise? That building in the rear of the garden is a gym, right?” I dip a stuffed grape leaf in hummus and bite in.

Oily perfection. Yum.

Enzo devours some chicken off a skewer. “I quit boxing.”

“You don’t box at all? Don’t you miss it? You have all those DVDs with old fights on them.”

Enzo keeps eating. The same tired, pained expression sits on his face as always, but I notice a deeper sadness, too, something cloudier in his eyes.

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