by Aven Ellis
Cade’s eyes light up. “You got it.”
“I watch way too many movies,” I admit.
In fact, after Marco dumped me, I think I watched every film made while eating five hundred cheesecakes.
Okay. I might be exaggerating.
On the film bit.
“Me, too,” Cade says. “I’m a film geek. But, anyway, you need an oven?”
I blink. Oh, right. Cheesecake catastrophe.
So much for being focused on my career. Apparently, if you throw a nearly naked hockey player in front of me, my focus goes out the window.
I clear my throat. “Yes. Can I possibly borrow yours for an hour?”
“Do I get cheesecake if I acquiesce?”
Did he just say acquiesce?
Impressive.
“I’m not some dumb hockey player. I did go to Cornell,” Cade says, studying me as he rakes his hand again through his wet hair. “I have an extensive vocabulary.”
My shocked expression clearly pleases him as his face lights up with a smile, revealing a dazzling set of perfect teeth and a dimple on his left cheek.
Holy cannoli.
Cannoli.
Must.get.cheesecakes.into.his.oven.
“Yes,” I say, willing myself to stay on task. “I need to bake two. One will be for my boss tomorrow. We can eat the other.”
“We?”
Shit.
“Um, well, I could leave you one, that’s fine,” I say, feeling my face burn in humiliation.
“I don’t believe in eating cheesecake alone, do you?”
Oh, my.
“Um, no. One should never eat cheesecake alone.”
Unless you’ve just been dumped by a cheating loser named Marco.
Then solitary cheesecake eating is permitted. In fact, it’s required.
“Okay. You said there are two. Let me get dressed, and I’ll help you carry them up here. Come on in.”
“Thank you so much. You are really bailing me out here.”
“No, not a problem. I’m glad I can help.”
He steps aside, and I move past him. Oh, God, he smells glorious, I think as I pick up scents of cedar and sage lingering on his damp skin. Do I also detect notes of lime and bergamot?
I’ve never loved my perceptive sense of smell more than I do right now.
Cade shuts the door behind me, and Leia waits for me to pet her by moving in front of me and strategically sitting down. Her tail swishes back and forth across the hardwood floor in anticipation.
“Hi, Leia,” I say, bending down to rub her massive head. “You’re a sweetheart, aren’t you?”
“She is. She’s my running buddy when Jude is away. I took her back to New York with me this summer, too. Easier than Jude taking her to the UK. Anyway, I’ll change and be right back.”
I stand up, watching him move down the hallway, and Lord, his back is sculpted beyond belief.
I tug at my apron neckline again.
Wait.
Apron.
My hand flies up to my headscarf.
Oh, no.
No, no, no.
I totally forgot what I am dressed in.
GAH!
A string of choice Italian swear words runs through my head.
I look like a 1940’s housewife.
My face burns at the thought. I glance down at my apron, covered with fruit and checks and ruffles, and want to die.
Cade must be back there shaking his head, wondering what the hell is up with Miss "Cheesecake-Obsessed Girl Dressed in Super Old Clothing” pounding on his door.
Why do you care?
I blink as my brain begins holding a sidebar conversation within my head.
Well, why do you? You’re not interested in men right now.
I hear a door shut. I turn and see Cade coming down the hall, tugging a maroon T-shirt over his sculpted body. It says Denver Mountain Lions Hockey #82 on it.
Oh, that’s hot.
Cade pauses to slide his feet into a pair of flip-flops.
“So, is your cannoli game strong?”
I snort. “Is my cannoli game strong? I’m Italian.”
“That doesn’t mean you have a strong cannoli game,” he counters, swiping his keys off the kitchen bar counter.
“Oh, it’s definitely strong.”
“We’ll see.”
“What, are you a cannoli expert?” I ask as he opens the door for me to step into the hallway.
“I might be. There’s a Little Italy in Poughkeepsie, where I’m from. And there’s this Italian bakery that has a solid cannoli game,” Cade explains as he locks the door to his apartment. “They have those rainbow cookies, too. I love those.”
“Don’t get me started on rainbow cookies,” I say, thinking of the almond paste cookies with layers colored to represent the Italian flag. Each layer is separated by jam and topped with chocolate. “I love those. Almost as much as I love cannoli. But nothing is better than a decadent cheesecake.”
Cade hits the elevator button and looks down at me, a curious expression filtering across his handsome face.
I’ve pretty much just told him cheesecake is better than sex. Oh God, where did the thought of sex come from?
“I’m sorry,” I blurt out. “I can’t believe I’m doing this to you.”
“What, talking?”
“Yes, talking. Too much. Rambling about rainbow cookies and cannoli and coming up here dressed like a housewife straight out of 1942 and banging on your door and asking to use your oven when I’m su—”
“I wasn’t thinking 1942 housewife,” he interrupts.
“What?” I ask, surprised he cut me off.
“I was thinking of Rosie the Riveter in the ‘We Can Do It!’ World War II posters,” Cade says as the elevator chimes. He holds up his arm in the iconic pose and flexes his bicep for me.
I can’t help but laugh as the elevator doors open. I step inside and Cade follows before punching the button for my floor.
“Okay, there’s a reason why I’m dressed like this,” I say.
“Sounds like a story,” he says, staring down at me.
“There is, but it’s long. Incredibly detailed. Bordering on sappy, I dare say.”
“I’ve got time,” Cade says easily. “I dare say.”
I continue to play along. “I’m not sure. It’s a family secret, you know. I’m probably breaking all kinds of protocol by sharing it with you.”
The elevator chimes on my floor. The doors open, but Cade immediately hits the button for the lobby.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“Hold on.”
“Cade, I have to get those cheesecakes in the oven!”
The elevator hits the lobby, where people are waiting to get in.
“Come on,” Cade says, tipping his head.
I follow him out, wondering what on earth he’s doing.
He stops and gazes down at me.
“You know that moment when someone walks into your apartment and asks to bake cannoli cheesecakes in your oven, wearing an apron and scarf in her hair and talking a big game about her mad cannoli skills? And in that moment you think, ‘Wow, this girl is really different?’”
Butterflies appear out of nowhere in my stomach.
“I’m weird,” I admit, smiling at him. “I own that, but what does that have to do with the apron story?”
“Correction. I didn’t say weird. I said different. Different is good in my book. Because I’m going to let you in on something.”
“What?”
“I’m different, too.”
Ooooh!
“How so? Do you have an apron?” I tease.
A brilliant smile lights up his face.
“No. But why don’t we walk down the street, get some coffee, and while your cheesecakes are baking, you can tell me the story. I’m kind of hoping you’d throw in the scarf thing, too, but if you only want to talk about the apron, I’ll settle.”
“And you’ll tell me how you’re d
ifferent after that?” I ask.
“Oh, I’ll tell you. So is your conversation game as strong as your cannoli game, Josephine?”
Swoop! The butterflies are fluttering wildly now.
“My conversation skills are solid,” I say.
Cade grins. “Good to know. This might call for an extra large coffee. If you say yes, that is. So what do you think?”
CHAPTER THREE
“I can’t believe Jude has an electric kettle,” I say, pouring some freshly heated water around the cheesecakes. “They’re so handy. We have them in the test kitchen at work, but it would be nice to have one at home, too.”
I can feel Cade studying me from his spot at the kitchen counter. We went and got coffee, then my cheesecakes, and after preheating the oven, I’m ready to slide them in at last.
“Jupe is British,” Cade explains. “He drinks tea all the time and had to have this thing. I asked why he can’t just microwave water and he mumbled something under his breath about it tasting horrible.”
I look up. “Jupe?”
“You know, Jupe. When we were in Hawaii during All-Star break and you and Sierra got drunk. She was texting him why it was over and they had that miscommunication. And Jude became Jupe in text. Apparently, it was an overdose of red wine and cheesecakes. Hmmmm. I wonder who had the idea to bring cheesecake to the man-bashing party?”
He lifts an eyebrow at me.
Ack! I shift my attention back to the cheesecake. We did get drunk that night. And bash Marco and Jude, er Jupe.
And, apparently, Jude shared the story with Cade.
“I might have suggested cheesecake,” I say, putting down the electric kettle. “But we were both screwed over. Well, Sierra wasn’t, though we didn’t know that then, but I was totally screwed over.”
I open the door, pick up the first pan and slide it in. Then I retrieve cheesecake number two and place it in the oven before shutting the door.
I turn to find Cade studying me.
“Screwed over sounds like a story.”
Ugh. I need to learn to shut up.
Or become a mime.
But if I were a mime, I’d just act everything out and humiliate myself that way. Because my brain apparently can’t function in front of Cade.
Mute not mime. I need to become mute in Cade’s presence.
“You only get one story at a time, Cade Callahan,” I say.
Wow. That was smart. And on my feet, too. Whoo hoo! My brain is back!
I untie the string on my apron and carefully lift it over my head. I fold it up and place it on the countertop, then turn to find Cade’s jade eyes flickering over my T-shirt dress.
“Do I need to save my ‘you bake in a dress’ question?”
Okay, he’s not repelled by my hips and the ten extra pounds of cheesecake indulgence I’m carrying there.
Wait. Cade doesn’t care about my hips.
He’s intrigued by the fact that I’m not a cookie-cutter girl.
Instead, I’m the different girl who happens to own a cookie cutter collection.
Ack.
I clear my throat and unknot my scarf, removing it and placing it on top of my apron.
“This needs to be a mutual exchange of information,” I say, staring at him in mock seriousness.
Cade lets out an infectious laugh that makes me smile.
“This must be what it was like in the 1980’s. The last decade of the Cold War. You’re a CIA agent willing to give information in exchange for intel on the KGB. I feel like we should be sitting on a bench with a briefcase in between us to exchange.”
“You like history?”
Cade’s eyes widen as if he’s surprised by my guess. “Why do you ask?”
“That is your second historical reference since I’ve been around you tonight,” I say.
“Is that bad?”
I almost feel like he’s testing me with his question.
“Why would it be bad?”
Cade shrugs. “I’m not supposed to be smart.”
I blink in surprise.
“What? Why not?”
“I think you need to answer the apron question first. Since you want an equal exchange of information, you know.”
Oh, Cade is someone I could develop a serious crush on.
Wait.
Never mind.
NO.
I’m a career woman now.
I’ve given up men.
No more crushes for me.
Especially not on a man who is so dangerously delicious.
“Come on, let’s have a seat,” Cade says, picking up his coffee. “You said this will take an hour, right? We might as well be comfortable.”
Comfortable. Ha-ha, right. How can I be comfortable sitting next to this super hot man? One who I’m detecting has so much more underneath his hockey player persona than the rest of the world sees? An exciting feeling of anticipation floats down my spine.
I nod as he motions for me to go first. I take a seat on one end of the living room sofa, and Cade sits on the other. Leia jumps up in the middle and drops her head on Cade’s lap, filling the space between us.
Since I had a pedicure yesterday, I feel confident enough to slip my feet out of my Converse and tuck my legs underneath me.
“Mmmm,” I say after taking a sip of my pecan pie latte and sinking back into the sofa cushions. “This is so good. I die for lattes, and this one is perfect. I can taste the roasted pecans, the richness of the maple syrup, and of course, the hint of nutmeg and cinnamon that gives it a nice kick of spice.”
Cade stares at me for a second. “You can taste all that in a sip?”
I grin. “I can. It’s one of my magical powers.”
“But how?” he asks, perplexed.
“I have a very sensitive palate,” I explain. “I’m considered a super-taster because I have a natural ability to detect the slightest amount of something in a dish.”
“That’s crazy.”
“Crazy awesome,” I say. “But if it doesn’t come naturally, you can train your palate, too.”
“How?”
“Did you just place the imaginary briefcase down between us? Is this your first question, or should I answer the apron question first?”
Oh, my banter game is on point right now.
Cade’s jade eyes flicker with interest.
“You are different.”
“I promise I didn’t oversell my oddness.”
“Sorry about all the questions,” Cade says, raking his hand through his rich brown locks and pushing them back off his forehead. “I’m very inquisitive by nature. As soon as a question pops into my head, I ask it. It drives some people crazy.”
He pauses to take a sip of his iced latte, and I think about what he just said.
“But questions show you are listening, so how can that drive someone crazy?”
“Did you just put a briefcase down?” Cade teases, parking his coffee cup on the end table. “Because that sounds like a question.”
Then he flashes me a beautiful smile.
Oh, he’s sharp.
I like this.
I could like him.
I clear my throat to get those dangerous thoughts out of my head.
“Okay. The apron is very old. It dates back to World War II, and it belonged to one eighteen-year-old Camilla Napoletano, who lived in Naples. The Americans set up a base of operations in Naples after liberating the city in 1944. One day, Camilla was at home baking when there was a knock at the door. It was one Joseph Rossi from Chicago, who was looking for a different family but had the wrong address.
“It was love at first sight. They courted. They married. Then Camilla moved to Chicago and never saw Italy again. She was willing to take a leap for love. To be fearless and believe in Joseph and the life she could have if she were brave.
“This apron,” I continue, “has been passed down in my family to Rossi women that showed a deep passion for cooking, as that was Camilla’s passion outside of Josep
h. She loved to cook for those she loved. Now the passing of the apron is a tradition. My nonna gave it to me when I was accepted into the Kendall College of Culinary Arts.”
I pause for a moment to see if Cade thinks this is the most boring story he’s ever been told in his life. I love this story with all my heart because it tells of great love. Of the man who loved Camilla, of her love for him, and her passion for both him and cooking for those most important in her life.
“You mean . . . that apron in there,” Cade says, inclining his head toward the kitchen, “has all that history?”
My heart soars.
He gets it.
Marco never got it. Marco never cared about that story and glazed over when I told it to him.
“Yes,” I nod. “That’s why I love it so much.”
“That’s amazing,” Cade says, his voice full of interest. “Think about it. That apron lasted through World War II. Through shortages and rations and then made the journey here.”
“I know,” I say. “My nonna—my grandmother—says it was the nicest thing Camilla owned during the war. She treasured it. And then when she came to Chicago, it was her link to her past, but also part of her future cooking in her new kitchen in America.”
“Man, if that apron could talk, the stories it would have,” Cade says as he winds his fingers through Leia’s fur. “I would love to hear about how she survived World War II. What they thought of the Allied troops being there after liberation, too.”
“I know. It’s more than an apron. It’s history. I know this sounds weird, but I can feel it when I put it on. And that’s why I always bake with it on when I’m at home.”
“That’s an incredible story,” he says, his eyes locking with mine.
“I think so, too.”
“Do you have any pictures of her from that time?”
“I’m sure my nonna does. She’s the keeper of all the family history stuff. Both in words and photographs. I’ll have her scan one and send it to me.”
“I would love to talk to your nonna. It sounds like she has done a good job keeping the stories of Camilla and Joseph alive. World War II fascinates me.”
I smile at him. “I’m putting my briefcase down now, but I demand two answers from you right off the bat. Because my story was outstanding.”
Cade laughs. The beautiful sound is becoming more familiar to me.
And I like it.
