Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 72990 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 365(@200wpm)___ 292(@250wpm)___ 243(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 72990 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 365(@200wpm)___ 292(@250wpm)___ 243(@300wpm)
I glance down at Gab, who’s chopping three tiny cloves into miniscule pieces. With her long hair tied up in a loose bun and tendrils falling around her face, she’s just perfect. “Here,” she says, scraping the garlic into the sizzling pan. “Keep stirring. I’ll get the meatballs.”
She disappears behind the door to the large old fridge that has probably served this family for over twenty years, emerging with the monster packet that Kain provided. My mouth waters and, more embarrassingly, my stomach growls. Gabriella laughs. “Poor Dalton.” She touches my arm. “I made you hungry and didn’t feed you. Do you want a cookie?”
“I’ll wait,” I say. “I want to savor this meal.”
She nods, smiling, and I stir the pot more vigorously, not wanting anything to catch on the bottom. One by one, Gabriella tosses the meatballs in and they sizzle noisily. “Brown, then all around. Try not to break them up.”
“That seems like a lot of responsibility.”
“I know you’re up to it.”
She’s cheeky, which is cute. While I’m battling to fry the meat, she’s gathering herbs and cans of tomatoes. From the fridge, she snags a half-finished bottle of wine. “Two cans of tomatoes,” she says, adding them. “Basil. Salt. Black pepper. A little oregano. Red wine. Oh, and a squeeze of tomato paste. You can turn down the heat now and we’re going to leave this to simmer.”
It smells amazing.
“Now for the pasta.”
“I know what I’m doing with that,” I say.
“Okay. Show me.”
I fill a big pan with water and salt it like the ocean, setting it to bring it to a rolling boil.
“Perfect,” Gabriella says.
“Now the pasta.” I add the spaghetti, lowering it slowly so the water doesn’t splash.
“Now stir it.” She hands me a slotted spoon and I swirl the water, trying to make sure nothing sticks.
As the water boils, the air fills with moisture and Gabriella’s hair curls around her face. I touch a strand, mesmerized by her natural beauty. She touches the same place, grimacing.
“It wants to be curly,” she says. “I’m always fighting against it.”
“Why? Curls are beautiful.” I drop my gaze to the apex of her thighs, and she laughs softly.
“You’re starting to sound a little obsessed with my pubic hair, Dalton.”
“There isn’t a man on this street who wouldn’t be obsessed with your pubic hair if he had a chance to see it.”
“Your dad lives on this street,” she says, and wheezes with laughter when I grimace.
“Don’t bring Old Man Nowak into our sex talk,” I say. “I have to work with that dude, and his ear hair is out of control. The thought of him thinking anything sexual is gross.”
“What about Mr. Grady?”
I stuff my fingers into my ears and sing la la la because that’s almost worse. The dude must be eighty-five.
Gabriella embraces me, laughing so much she struggles to catch a breath.
I push her arms away, shaking my head. “Don’t start with the affection now. I’ll get a boner and all this food will burn.”
Holding her hands out, palms towards me, she grins. “Okay, D. I’ll focus on the food.”
“That’s good. Perfect.”
She begins to assemble a large salad, filled with leftover chicken, sweetcorn, croutons, and olives. It looks delicious and I take mental notes about the quantities and her technique and file away the information for another day. I stir the meatballs in sauce gently just to make sure they’re not catching on the bottom. The pasta is still cooking but has swelled to almost twice its original size.
“Time to drain that,” she says, peering into the pan.
“Okay.” I walk it over to the sink and create a gap between the glass lid and the pan, allowing the water to spill out slowly. The steam warms my face and settles against my skin. Glancing to the side, I catch Gabriella watching me.
“You’re not a total idiot in the kitchen, are you, Dalton?”
“I’ve watched some cooking programs.”
“Really?” Her eyebrows shoot up in an adorably surprised way.
“Yeah.”
“So you really want to learn?”
“Sure.” When I place the pan back on the stove, Gabriella grabs a spoon and tastes the sauce.
“Mmmmm…that is so good. Now all you need to do is combine.”
With a ladle, I begin to move the sauce into the pasta pan, and when both ingredients are combined, I stir it slowly to spread the tomato sauce evenly through.
“Your mom was a good cook, wasn’t she?” Gabriella says.
“She was. I have her recipe book in the kitchen at home.”
“Maybe we should cook something from there next time?”
I stare at her earnest expression, so unbelievably touched that she’d think of something like that. Mom’s lasagna was my favorite, and I’ve never had one as good since she passed away. If Gabriella could recreate that masterpiece, I know I’ll never be able to let her go.
“Okay. That sounds good.”
“We should get this into the dish you brought with you so I can tackle the washing up.”