Page 112 of The Woman with the Target on her Back (Grassi Family)

“Okay. That’s enough small talk. What are you cooking?” I asked, getting a big smile out of him.

“I’m heating. Mom cooked,” he told me.

“She was here?” I asked.

“Yep. One of my brothers must have told her you were here. And injured. So she hit the store when it opened, then rolled up her sleeves, and got to work.”

“Really?” I asked, surprised to find my eyes glassy.

“Of course,” he said. “And I’m sure there is going to be a meal train once this food runs out.”

“A meal train?” I asked, sipping my coffee, and trying not to jump up and go grab a bowl of whatever was in the oven.

“All the women will pick a day and meals and drop them off. They do it when someone is hurt or sick, pregnant, post-partum, anything that would make cooking good food difficult.”

“That’s really great of them,” she said.

“You done acting like you’re not fucking dying for some food?” he asked, clearly knowing me a little too well.

“Yes,” I said, nodding. “I want a serving big enough for a bodybuilder. Two bodybuilders,” I clarified.

With that, he got up, going to the oven to pull out something that seemed to just be staying warm.

“Fettuccini alfredo with broccoli and breadsticks,” he told me as he brought over a giant plate for me, and a much smaller one for himself.

“Oh, my God,” I groaned, the smell alone practically fucking orgasmic.

I wasted no time, jumping in and twirling the thick noodles, then stabbing a floret of broccoli before shoving it all into my mouth.

“Oh, myGod,” I whimpered as I started to chew. “I hope you don’t want anymore of this, because I am eating all of it,” I told him.

I stuffed my face until my stomach was so full that I was uncomfortable.

“What else did she make?” I asked as August took the dishes to the dishwasher.

“Pasta Pomodoro and eggplant parm,” he told me. “She said that should get us through the day,” he added, smirking. “I promised her that I would tell her any preferences when you woke up, so she could make those dishes.”

“Really?” I asked, heart feeling like it was swelling in my chest.

“Yeah, of course.”

“Isn’t that a lot of work?”

“Baby,” August said, shaking his head. “She’ll be offended if you don’t have some suggestions. She wants to do it, let her do it.”

“In that case, ravioli. And minestrone.”

“She makes a fucking banging minestrone,” August said. “She’ll even make bread bowls to eat it out of.”

“Well, that needs to happen,” I decided.

“How are you holding up?” he asked as we moved into the living room, him pulling my legs up over his lap, and me resting my head on his shoulder almost immediately. Like we had been doing this for years.

“I’m… processing,” I said.

And there was still a lot to process.

Like the fact that Stan was dead.

---