Page 22 of Fighting Words

I down my wine, and she refills my glass with a small smile. I nod in thanks and drop my napkin in my lap then watch as she leans forward to take a bite.

It won’t help me to ignore the fact that Summer is insanely gorgeous. Admitting that to myself, in my head, might make this slightly easier. I’ve tried to ignore it all day and that hasn’t worked, so I’ll call a spade a spade and go from there. Maybe trying to force down my reaction to her is part of the problem.

“Do you like it?” she asks, referring to the pasta I’ve scarfed down in record time.

“It’s great.”

It’s flavorful, and I like that it packs a punch with the sausage.

“It’s my mom’s recipe. Like I said, she’s an avid cook.”

“Does she work?”

She nods and wipes her mouth with her napkin before replying. “She and my dad are both physicians. My sister and brother too.”

“And you are—”

“Not,” she interrupts with a flat smile as she rolls her eyes. “I’m the zany wild child.”

“You don’t seem wild.”

She cocks an eyebrow in protest. “No?”

Fire burns through me, and I reach for my wine glass again.

“My parents would disagree with you. I think they’ve fully accepted that I’m a lost cause.”

“I don’t understand. Because you didn’t go into medicine?” I sound incredulous.

She shrugs one delicate shoulder. “Among other things.”

“Did you get in a lot of trouble growing up or something?”

I can’t picture it. She seems like the studious type, a teacher’s pet if there ever was one.

She laughs at the suggestion. “No. Not at all. I’ve never had detention or anything. I’m one of those people who hates getting in trouble. What about you? Were you wild?”

“I was a latchkey kid. My parents gave me a lot of rope, and I never really tried to abuse their trust.”

She studies me as I talk, her head tilting to the side ever so gently. “How old are you?”

“Thirty-four. Shouldn’t you have already known that? Didn’t InkWell give you a file with every bit of information they have on me?”

Her eyes alight with the suggestion. “No, but I wish they had. All your deep, dark secrets?” Her eyebrows waggle. “I’d love to read them.”

“There’s nothing deep or dark about me.”

She snorts in disbelief. “You should get an outsider’s perspective.”

“So tell me.”

She forces a swallow as her expression sobers. “What I think about you?” Her voice is shaky now; she seems worried where the conversation is going.

“You’re an outsider, aren’t you?” I press.

That’s what Alice called her at the shop earlier.

She shakes her head and looks down, gulping more of her wine. “It’s not my place to say. Sorry. It’s hard not to blur the lines. I know I’m here to work, so why don’t we do that? Work, I mean. Over dinner?”

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