Page 53 of The Woman with the Target on her Back (Grassi Family)

“I don’t remember the last time someone cooked for me,” I admitted. And a man had never cooked for me, but I wasn’t about to admit that.

“I figured,” he agreed. “That’s why I wanted to do it. To be honest, though, I haven’t done this in a long time. I don’t know if this is gonna be as good as I hope.”

“It smells amazing,” I told him, pulling up a seat on the other side of the island.

Maybe I was supposed to offer to help, but I was enjoying watching him a little too much.

Then this stupidly handsome, sometimes obnoxious, but good at his core, man put down the bag, wiped his hands, and poured me a glass of red wine from a bottle he had breathing.

“Feel better after the bath?” he asked.

“I feel less numb,” I admitted. “I don’t know if better is the right word, though,” I said as I took the wine glass from him. “This food might make me feel better, though. Is that garlic bread?”

“No, sweet cheeks, that ischeesygarlic bread,” he said, giving me a smirk when a very suggestive-sounding moan escaped me.

“Is Aurelio coming?” I asked, only seeing two glasses.

“No. He wanted to get some rest.”

“Is he okay?” I asked. “His arm…”

“He’s fine. I’m sure he treated it before he decided to get some sleep.”

“Maybe we should take him a plate,” I said, looking at the food he had spread out. There was more than enough.

“Baby, I think the only mom more obsessed with cooking than mine is Aurelio’s mom. Trust me, he’s had stuffed shells before. Better ones. He isn’t missing out. In our world, ordering takeout is more of a treat than homemade since homemade is the standard.”

“In that case, I am happy to have extra,” I told him as he picked up his bag again and got back to work.

“Do you enjoy cooking?” I asked.

“It’s kind of meditative,” he said, shrugging. “Gives you something to physically do while you think shit through.”

“I feel that way about baking,” I told him. “What shit are you thinking through?” I asked.

“The fact that it sounds like you haven’t had a proper Thanksgiving in years.”

“You’re… not wrong. I vaguely remember some when my parents were still together, but the cooking was usually overshadowed by their arguing, so that’s what I remember best. For the past few years, I’ve been volunteering on Thanksgiving. Save for last year.”

“Why not? Did you have plans?”

“They turned me away,” I admitted. “People tend to get more charitable around the holidays. They had more volunteers than they needed.”

“What’d you do instead?” I asked.

“Went to the shop and baked. Black Friday is usually a huge day for coffee and fast foods, so I got prepared ahead of time. Don’t give me that look,” I said when his eyes went sad.

“Sorry,” he said, shaking his head.

“What was your last Thanksgiving like?”

“Hectic,” he admitted. “Loud. Packed,” he said. “With a ridiculous amount of food.”

“Okay, I’m curious. What does an Italian Thanksgiving look like? Is it all pasta dishes and stuff? Or is it more traditional?”

“It’s a mix. We have the turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes, yams, all that shit. But because my mom and aunts are who they are, we also have caprese, antipasti, meatballs, and lasagne.”

“There must be leftovers for a week.”

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