Meg scratched her head.
“What is it?”
“Judy says hi.” Meg let the kiss go for now. “Said all is silent in the real world.”
“Sounds good to me.”
“Yeah.”
“Then why the frown?”
“I asked her to check on that Alonzo guy.”
Michael frowned. “What did Judy find?”
“She didn’t say. Just suggested that Rick and Neil said not to trust the man.”
Michael turned, leaned a hip against the counter. “Not a problem since the man isn’t here.”
“I guess.”
The back door to the villa opened, catching both their attention. Ryder stepped into the living room, half-winded. “Utah has nothing on this place,” he said.
“Sparkling water and ocean breezes . . . I have to agree.” Michael opened a cupboard and removed a cup. “Coffee?”
“Love it. Morning, Meg.”
“Good morning.”
She opened the second envelope. This one didn’t have an off-island address.
My mother is a dictator in the kitchen . . . fair warning.
Val
“Damn.”
“What?”
She’d forgotten about the cooking lesson. “I-I have a debt to pay.” She glanced at the clock. She still had time for a shower. Makeup and polish would have to wait.
Without thought, she gathered the mail and rushed from the room.
A quick shower, a pair of shorts, and a little mascara, and Meg fled the villa.
Simona Masini wore an apron and already had Val’s kitchen brimming with fresh tomatoes, flour, and eggs when Meg arrived.
The scene was out of a horror movie. Well, Meg’s idea of macabre, in any event.
“Sorry I’m late,” Meg apologized as she walked in through the back door.
Mrs. Masini offered a placating smile. “I have all day.” The older woman handed Meg an apron. “Put this on.”
“All day?” Meg wrapped the thing around her waist, asked herself if she’d ever worn an apron before. Nope.
“Don’t look so glum, Margaret. You appear to be a bright woman. I’m sure I can teach you the basics of pasta.”
Mrs. Masini opened a huge rubber container and dumped several cups of flour right on the smooth counter. “We start with the pasta so it can dry while we prepare the sauce.”
“When you start with dry pasta, you’re ahead of the game.”
It was hard not to laugh at the older woman’s scowl. “I will show you first, and you will follow. Wash your hands.”
Meg moved to the sink on autopilot, did as she was told. “I have to warn you, Mrs. Masini. The kitchen and I are sworn enemies. Even my cookies come from a bag.”
“Doesn’t your mother cook? Make anything from scratch?”
Meg thought of the potted marijuana plants and the drying racks her parents used even before it was legal. “She dried her own herbs.”
Mrs. Masini wasn’t impressed. She made a fist and stuck it in the middle of her pile of flour and started cracking eggs into the center of her mini flour volcano. “Pasta is the most basic of foods. The recipe easily memorized.” Her hands whizzed over the flour, added a dash of salt, and something else. “Why are you standing there watching?” She waved a messy hand to the other side of the counter. “Start with the flour.”
Meg tried to mimic her teacher, dipped her hand into the center of her mound a little too much and realized that if she were to add an egg the thing would blow through the side like Mount St. Helens. She repaired the side of her mountain and cracked an egg.
The first egg went in perfectly; the second took part of a shell, which Meg pulled out before reaching for the third egg. Meg glanced over at Mrs. Masini, who silently watched.
“This isn’t that hard.”
The third egg toppled over the edge of the flour and spilled onto the counter. Meg tried to stop the flow with the palm of her hand only to find the rest of her mountain crumbling. “Oh, no.”
The more she tried to stop the lava flow, the bigger the mess became.
Mrs. Masini wiped her hands on her apron and removed a trash barrel. With the help of a paper towel, the entire mountain found its way to the garbage.
“Start again.”
The second volcano didn’t erupt until after Mrs. Masini showed her how to mix the egg into the flour. The third attempt was next to perfect.
Or at least a passing grade.
Mrs. Masini chatted while they cut the pasta, rolled it into tiny strands, and placed it on a rack to dry.
Mrs. Masini brought out a bottle of cabernet once all the tomatoes were cut, along with onion and fresh garlic, and handed it to Meg. “Open this.”
Meg was starting to like Mrs. Masini’s idea of cooking. “Where are the glasses?” she asked once the bottle was uncorked.
Mrs. Masini rolled her eyes, took the bottle from Meg’s hand, and poured a splash into the sauce they’d mixed from raw ingredients and put into a pot.
“Oh.” Meg glanced at the label with disappointment. “This isn’t your son-in-law’s wine.”
“He’s not my son-in-law!”
“Yet.”
Mrs. Masini grunted.
“I take it you don’t approve of your daughter’s choice.”
She hesitated. “The man won’t look at me, doesn’t meet my eyes.”
“You think he’s hiding something?”
Mrs. Masini didn’t agree or disagree. “What man presumes to fall madly in love, then leaves his intended for weeks at a time? He has yet to introduce Gabi to his family. Who are his people?”
Meg thought of her own family. “Not all families define their children.”
“True, but marriage is more than simply two people coming together. How can I approve his family if I’ve not met them? I don’t trust him.”
The venom in the woman’s words rang inside Meg’s head. It was her turn to watch in silence as Mrs. Masini moved about the kitchen. She found a cupboard and removed two glasses. She poured wine for the both of them and took a big sip. “Know the man you marry, Margaret. Know his family.”
“Marriage isn’t in my plans.”
“Why is that?”
Meg had been giving that some thought since she went to work for Alliance. “I find myself smiling and happiest when I’m beside an artistic type.”
“Like Jim?”
Meg nodded. “Albeit a few decades younger,” she said with a laugh. “But guys like Jim don’t stick around and can’t manage rent, let alone a power bill.”
Mrs. Masini weighed her words, sipped her wine. “Then you find someone with more stability.”
Meg knew a lot of suits. She’d been hooking them up for a couple of years. They might be stable, but the inability to laugh and enjoy life was a serious killjoy. “I decided some time ago that I didn’t want to settle for half the package . . . I also learned that the perfect man doesn’t exist, and Lord knows I’m nowhere near perfect.”
“None of us are, dear.”
“It would be easier if my expectations weren’t so high. My parents are happy being dirt-poor together. If either of them wanted something different, one of them would be miserable.” She’d rather be single and happy than married and miserable.
“So you’re looking for the stable artistic man.”
“I’m not looking for anyone.”
“What about your friends with benefits?” Mrs. Masini delivered a snarky grin, one that told Meg that there had been a time when Mrs. Masini was in her twenties.
“Friends for fun aren’t the same as friends forever.”
Something told Meg that she would hear Mrs. Masini’s grunt well into the future. “Every woman marries eventually.”
Meg opened her mouth to deny the claim only to have Mrs. Masini talk over her. “Eventually you’ll want children.”
“I’m a—”
“When you hold your baby for the first time. All the pain in your life dis
appears. You’ll sacrifice many things for your children, your family. It’s hard to watch them make the wrong decisions.”
“Like marrying the wrong person.”
Mrs. Masini tilted her wineglass in Meg’s direction. “Like marrying the wrong person.”
“What worries you the most about Mr. Picano? Do you think he’ll be cruel?” They’d switched to the subject of Gabi in a nanosecond and Mrs. Masini didn’t miss a beat.
“I’ve seen very little emotion from the man. How can an Italian man have so little emotion?” Mrs. Masini was waving her hand in the air now, her voice up at least an octave. “Mr. Masini, rest his soul, lived life with passion. He loved with his whole heart. He would want nothing less for his baby girl. A man who can’t voice his anger bottles it up inside until it bursts. Then I fear for my daughter.”
“Some men don’t get all that excited about life’s stresses.”
Mrs. Masini shook her head. “Alonzo Picano holds it in. I see it in his eyes.”
Wow, she really didn’t like this guy.
“Maybe you just don’t know him very well.”
She growled. “Now you sound like my son. I know him well enough. He’s not good enough for Gabriella. He will be back on island tomorrow. You’ll see what I see if you look.”
Mrs. Masini moved from her perch and stirred the marinara sauce before replacing the lid and turning the temperature down.
“I thought Gabi said he wasn’t coming back for a week.”
“He changed his mind. Like a woman. A man of business doesn’t have the luxury of changing his mind.”
Meg couldn’t argue with that. “Something came up?”
Mrs. Masini groaned.
Michael reached the peak of the cliff before Ryder. They’d started the day off with wakeboarding and then decided on a hike and picnic lunch on the northern point of the small island. Seemed most of Sapore di Amore’s guests enjoyed the pool or the beach, because they hadn’t passed one person since they set out.
The breeze was stronger a few hundred feet above sea level, the view breathtaking.
Ryder reached the top and turned to take it in. “Wow.”
“Views like this never get old,” Michael told him.
“Makes me wonder why I’m living in Utah.”
“It’s where we grew up. It’s safe.” At least that’s how Michael thought of things when he’d lived there. He enjoyed going back now that things with his parents, or more importantly, his father, were on better terms. Not that he would ever return to live there. In the past few years, he had revealed his sexuality to his older sister and brother, and just recently one of his younger sisters. It was only a matter of time before he had a conversation with his parents. Distance helped keep his secrets. Still, revealing his sexuality to his father was a pinnacle in his life he had yet to cross.
Ryder leaned back on his forearms, drawing Michael’s attention. The two of them had shared more together than anyone else in Michael’s life. When they stole time together, it was as if they were kids again, or at least a decade younger. Life felt full and packed with the promise of a bright future. “You know, they have high schools everywhere. You don’t have to stay in Hilton.”
“Trying to lure me away to the big city, Mike?” Ryder’s teasing grin sprayed two mirrored dimples.
Was he? “Why does our life have to be so damn complicated?”
“Because we’re gay.”
Michael let out a short laugh. “Is that it? I didn’t realize.”
Ryder rolled onto his side, smiled up at him. “If I left Utah, where would I go? Beverly Hills with you, become a kept man?”
No one could keep Ryder. He was too strong, too pigheaded. “You’d work.”
“And when people asked why I was living with you?”
“People have roommates all the time.” Saying the words aloud gave Michael room in his brain to consider the possibility. “Aren’t you tired of a small town filled with narrow-minded people?”
Ryder reached out, laid a hand on his thigh. “We could jeopardize everything you’ve worked for.”
His heart jumped. He thought of Meg’s words . . . asking if he’d ever have enough money to be happy. Did the money in his bank even compare to this moment on the side of a cliff with his lover at his side?
Michael took Ryder’s hand and squeezed it. “We both have something to lose.”
“Bears some serious thought,” Ryder agreed and looked away.
They were silent for a moment, watching the seagulls flying over the waves and picking up their lunch.
“This really is beautiful,” he said.
Michael watched Ryder’s profile. “Yeah, yeah it is.”
Chapter Ten
Mrs. Masini decided a nap in the afternoon was a good idea, leaving Meg to stir the sauce for a half an hour unsupervised.
The woman clearly didn’t know how easily Meg could screw up a meal. It probably didn’t help that half the bottle of wine was gone.
She filled a pot with water to boil fifteen minutes before the hour, as instructed. According to Mrs. Masini, a late pasta lunch was the perfect meal. Meg was convinced that eating at two was an excuse to soak up the wine.
Meg turned to the sink long enough to wash sauce from her hands and heard the water on the stove boiling over.
“Whoa, there.” Of course, Val would walk in the kitchen right as Meg was making a mess.
He twisted down the flame, taming the boiling water. He was once again in a three-piece suit and she was in . . . Meg glanced down about the same time Val swept her frame with his eyes.
The apron around her waist took some of the weight of the flour off her clothing, but there was still a good quarter pound of that crap all over her. She was fairly certain kindergarten kids could make pasta from scratch with less mess.
Val hid a smile behind his hand.
“Oh, go ahead and laugh.”
His hand fell away. “You look . . . you look . . .”
She blew a strand of hair from her eyes and walked around him to the stove. She wasn’t going to muck up the sauce because he couldn’t articulate how ridiculous she looked.
“It took three attempts to make the pasta right.” She nodded toward the dried strings of carbohydrates.
“I warned you.”
She growled, the sound surprisingly similar to that of Val’s mother.
“Where is my mother?”
“Resting. Seems creating culinary greatness takes it out of her. She asked that I wake her when the pasta is done cooking.”
Val slid out of his jacket and loosened his tie. “If it’s any help, it smells delicious.”
“I popped a few gray hairs making this meal, I hope it smells good.”
He laughed, rolled up his sleeves, and washed his hands. “I don’t think it’s gray in the hair. Just flour.”
The thought of tossing her pasta-smudged dishtowel at him crossed her mind. But then she’d mess up his linen shirt. Maybe if he wore something more casual . . .
“I told her I didn’t cook.”
“That was your first mistake.” He took the rack of dried pasta over to the boiling water.
Meg stood beside him, managed a whiff of the scent of the man through the garlic and tomatoes. Instead of taking notice, she concentrated on stirring.
Once he placed the pasta into the pot to boil, he stared at her.
She looked through her lashes, didn’t turn her head. “What?”
He reached out, brushed at her cheek. “You have a little . . .”
Flour? Sauce? It could have been anything to draw his touch. A zip of crazy energy tingled up her back. “I thought about you last night,” he told her.
“Really?” She really wasn’t too happy with how charged the man made her feel. His cocky ending to the previous evening tossed her around most of the night. Not that she’d tell him. “I slept like a baby.”
“Is that right?”
He moved behind her, reached for the dial on
the stove, purposely brushing his body close to hers.
“You know, Masini, I can move.”
“Where would the fun be in that?”
He had a point. “You’re so cocky.”
“You said that last night.”
“Still holds.”
He laughed and brushed her arm with one of his hands. She started to lean into him when they realized they weren’t alone.
Meg tried to hold back her jump, didn’t want to be so obvious, but failed. “Hi, Gabi.”
Gabi watched the two of them with wide eyes and a smug smile. “Hello, Meg. I knew you were cooking . . . but I had no idea.”
Val laughed and Meg placed an elbow into his side. “Your brother’s a flirt.”
“Is that right? I’ve never really noticed before.”
Meg twisted away from the watchful eyes of Val and dropped her towel on the counter. “I should wake your mom.”
“I’ll get her,” Gabi said. “You two . . . carry on.”
Meg waved an accusing finger Val’s way the moment they were alone. “I’m supposed to be here with Michael.”
“And yet you’re not.”
“A fact that shouldn’t be advertised. Why do you think we’re here?”
“You needn’t worry about Gabi. She’d never do anything to compromise what happens on this island.”
He turned off the heat on the pasta and lifted the heavy pot to the sink. The colander was already in place to drain the pasta. It was obvious that Val knew his way around the kitchen. “I take it your mother taught you how to cook.”
He smiled. “My father, actually. Good thing, too. My mother didn’t want anything to do with cooking for months after his death.”
“You’re the good son all the way around.” She meant the words as a compliment but they came out a little snarky.
“Family is important.”
She wondered if the family loyalty thing skipped her. She loved her parents, but didn’t have any undying need to protect and care for them. They’d always seemed to do that for each other just fine, leaving her flapping in a lonely wind.
Gabi jogged down the back stairs and into the kitchen. “She’ll be down in a few minutes. Shall I set the table?” She walked over to the eat-in kitchen table and started to lift Meg’s purse to set it aside.
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