Page 15 of Love, Untangled

“Do you like mayonnaise or mustard on your sandwich? The bread’s not as good as yours, but it’s better than store-bought. I have sliced turkey and preserved tomatoes. No pickles, sorry.”

He let her change in topic slide—for now. But Carlo wanted to know more about a woman who never bothered to educate her child.

Chapter 6

Penelope

Pen’s heart continued to pound even as she kept her movements steady, relaxed. She’d had years of practice hiding just how bad the situation with her mother had become. No one needed to know about the time her mother left her in Syracuse for two days, coming back with a “get in the car,” as if Pen hadn’t been terrified and starving, curled into a tight ball in the back room of the apartment where her mother left her. A shiver ripped up her spine, reminding her again why she never ate pickles—the man who’d owned the place had watched her, his eyes unnerving, as he ate slices straight from the jar with a steak knife.

Bile rose hard and fast, but Pen swallowed, pushing it down, pushing all of the fear, anger, resentment down—where it belonged. She’d read the line “out of sight, out of mind” somewhere…maybe in one of the library books she borrowed—well, stole, since her mother packed her up and moved her on before she managed to return it. Pen had a system where she’d drop the books she’d collected into the return bin in the next town, hoping they’d find their way back to the nice ladies and tweedy gentlemen who helped her find subjects.

“I don’t like pickles either,” Carlo said, pulling her from the past. “Too much vinegar.”

Pen shot him a smile over her shoulder. “Yes, exactly. Mustard? Mayo?”

“Neither. But I’ll have everything else. Now where’s the leaking faucet?”

“Oh, um. In my bathroom. Maybe we could look at it after we eat?”

“Sure.”

Pen finished making his sandwich, then hers. She brought both plates to the table, along with a bag of potato chips and mini carrots.

“Oh, drinks!” She popped up right before her rump hit the chair. “What do you want? I have water, oat milk, tea, coffee…”

Boring, boring, boring. She couldn’t even offer him a beer because she wasn’t old enough to buy it.

“Oat milk?” Carlo’s eyebrows shot up.

“For my tea. I froth it into my Earl Grey.”

Carlo wrinkled his nose. “I’ll take your word for it that it tastes good. Water, please.”

“Hey, don’t knock it till you try it.” She set two glasses down on the counter and filled them from her filtered pitcher.

“I’ll pass on the knocking if I can also pass on the trying,” he said. “Thanks for lunch.”

They ate in companionable silence, but Pen couldn’t help but take mental snapshots of Carlo during the meal. His bites were economical, his strong jaw working before his tanned throat swallowed. She dropped her gaze to her plate, shocked by her strong reaction. She’d liked boys—men—before, but Carlo made her feel things. Desire, definitely, but also that she was safe. He was big and sturdy but careful around her.

She wished he’d be less of the last. Honestly, she wanted him to hold her in those arms, against the bulk of his chest again. She wanted…

What she’d never had.

“You okay?” Carlo’s words cut through her shock.

“Yeah. Just…just thinking about a design.” She braved a smile even as she raised her sandwich to her lips. She took a small bite, so he wouldn’t continue to assess her. She needed time alone to think through her epiphany.

Carlo stacked the dishes in the sink, but Pen insisted she’d do them later.

“Let me show you the faucet—that is, if you still have time.” Part of her wanted him to say he didn’t.

He seemed to catch that. “I have time,” he said, his eyes careful.

“Good. Great. This way.”

She led him through the house, up the stairs, to the bedroom she’d taken. Because there were only two bathrooms, one on each level, there wasn’t a true primary suite. So Pen had reverted back to the room she remembered from childhood, postponing culling her grandmother’s things until she felt more capable of taking on the task.

The bed was made and her clothes were all put away. Pen had read in a psychology book that she liked order in her space because it was something she could control—whereas living with her mother was completely outside her abilities to influence.

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