Sweet Love

by Lauren Accardo

  Their talk on Monday had done little to squelch the burgeoning fears in her psyche. She knew what he wanted, and it wasn’t a family with her in Pine Ridge. She tried to tell herself she could be cool, treat this casually, and take one day at a time. But she cared too much. The dull ache in her chest that bloomed as he kissed her was unavoidable. She’d never shake it now.

  She arrived home, and her phone buzzed with texts as it connected to Wi-Fi. She set her grocery bags on the countertop and checked her messages, the first from Jared.

  Need me to pick up anything on my way over?

  She grinned. He’d sent the text twenty minutes ago and was probably already nearing her place. She fired back quickly that she didn’t need a thing, and then added Well . . . with the eggplant emoji and sent it before she could talk herself out of it. Introducing sex jokes back into their repertoire gave the butterflies in her chest new reason to flap their wings.

  Before she set her phone down to start dinner, she noticed another message.

  Hey Mila. Give me a call when you have a minute.

  “No, thank you.” She deleted Vin’s message and tossed her phone onto the couch. Whatever that asshole had to say could wait.

  Her front buzzer rang just as she scraped the finely chopped anchovies into the pan, the satisfying sizzle bringing a smile to her face. Jared always jumped at the chance to try one of her creations, never shying away from an unorthodox ingredient. Anchovy pasta might be just weird enough to make him fall in love.

  She buzzed him in, and moments later opened the door to catch him jogging up the stairs. In one hand, he clutched a bottle of wine, and in the other, a stunning bouquet of jewel-toned flowers. Blue hydrangea nestled next to brilliant purple anemones and ruby-red poppies.

  Warmth rose to her cheeks as he approached, a little-boy grin tugging at his lips.

  “Hi.” He held out the bouquet and then quickly closed the space between them to plant a kiss on her temple. “Take two. This time, with feeling.”

  She took the bouquet with trembling fingers and breathed him in, the cold clinging to his leather jacket like a ghost. She lifted her face and kissed him. Quiet and slow.

  Damn him. What had he gone and done now?

  “I take it you like these?” he said.

  She licked her lips, gazing down at the flowers and then back up at him. Take two blew take one out of the water. “Are these all for love?”

  He shook his head in disbelief while a grin took over his mouth. “I was trying to tell you something, you crazy woman. You just didn’t translate it very well.”

  “How embarrassing for me. All these years I’ve known you, and I still don’t speak bumbling idiot.”

  His jaw dropped in faux indignation, and he squeezed her around the waist, gently pushing her inside. She closed the door behind him, and he collapsed into the couch with an exaggerated inhale.

  “Wow,” he said. “What smells so good? You told me this was a quick, easy dinner. I expected Easy Mac and Doritos.”

  “Have the words ‘Easy Mac’ ever left my mouth?” she said. “It’s spaghetti with garlic and anchovies, and a little arugula salad with grapefruit and fennel. I made extra salad to give to my parents tomorrow. I have to take my mom to her physical in Utica, and I’m sure the doctor will have some words about her cholesterol.”

  With a wooden spoon, she stirred the anchovies in the pan, releasing another wave of pungent garlic-scented air into the room.

  “Garlic and anchovies,” he said. “I guess if we’re both eating it, neither of us will be repulsed by the other one’s breath later on?”

  She shook her head and poured lemon juice into the pan, scraping up the brown bits and slowly turning the sizzling concoction into a simple sauce. After a few shakes of chili flakes, she turned off the heat.

  “Call me crazy, but I’d take garlic breath over fake minty gum breath any day. Something about that taste reminds me of bad make-outs in high school.”

  When he didn’t respond, she turned over her shoulder to find him peering at her phone.

  “Nosy much?” she said.

  He sat straight up, a startled expression on his face. “Sorry. I, uh . . . Vin’s texting you.”

  She cocked her head, flattery simmering in her chest. “Why does he get under your skin like this? Of all the guys to be worried about . . .”

  “I’m not worried.” He crossed his arms and leaned back, spreading his legs in some forced display of machismo. “That guy’s got nothing on me.”

  “Oh my God, you are so cute.” She tore her gaze away to stir the pasta into the sauce. With her heart in her throat, she realized that this very moment was exactly what she’d been trying to avoid. Cooking dinner, flirting, joking, and all the while knowing they’d be naked and tasting each other in a matter of hours. It was everything she wanted, and everything she couldn’t have.

  “So what does he want?” Jared said.

  She turned again, this time with a cocked eyebrow. “I don’t know, I haven’t read the messages yet.”

  He gnawed at his lip and shifted in place, tension setting into his jaw. She could have easily cleared it up, told him she’d already read one of the messages and Vin had simply asked her to call him. But an evil little voice deep down in her soul told her to let him squirm.

  “You know,” he said, “I know we said no labels and all that. But I wouldn’t sleep with somebody else behind your back.”

  His words stung like a slap in the face.

  “How dare you. I wouldn’t, either, you asshole.”

  His eyes widened, his lips parted in surprise. “No, no, that’s not what I meant. I meant . . . This seemed like a good time to just get it out there. In case you were wondering.”

  “Oh, good.” Sarcasm dripped from her words. “Thank you very much for clearing that up.”

  She gave the frying pan a good shake and dumped the spaghetti into a large bowl, coating the top of the dish with crunchy homemade bread crumbs. With teeth clenched, she carried the bowl to the coffee table, where she’d already set out pasta bowls, forks, and napkins.

  She sat down next to him, leaving a discernible space.

  “Hey,” he said quietly. He wrapped an arm around her shoulders and pulled her into his warm cocoon of biceps and soft wool and spicy cologne. “I’m sorry.”

  She refused to meet his gaze. Tears threatened her sinuses, but she’d be dead before she let a single one appear. If he pulled her any closer or forced her to look at him, she’d crumble.

  “Trust me, okay?” she said.

  He used his other arm to complete the hug, burying his face in her neck. “I do.”

  The phone next to her buzzed again, and she groaned as he pulled away. “God, what could he possibly want?”

  She opened her messaging app to find three new messages from Vin.

  Do you have a minute now?

  Sorry to keep bugging you, but it’s kind of urgent.

  It’s about your pie from round one. Please call me as soon as you can.

  “What’s wrong?” Jared asked.

  Mila’s brow twisted in confusion. She muttered to Jared that she had to make the call now and dialed Vin’s number.

  “Hey,” he said after the first ring.

  Mila stood to look out the window, knowing full well the conversation was fair game for Jared’s ears but still wanting to keep some semblance of privacy. She feared the worst.

  “Hi,” she said. “So you’ve sufficiently freaked me out. What’s going on?”

  “As part of the contest, I have to go through and submit each contestant’s recipe to the legal team at Indigo and prove that each contestant falls within the requirements set forth by the hotel. After double-checking the recipe and the ingredients, we found that less than half your ingredients were sourced from New York State, rende
ring your recipe ineligible.”

  The blood pulsed in Mila’s ears, nearly drowning out Vin’s words.

  “Wait . . . what? That’s absolutely false. I can provide receipts showing you where I got them.”

  “It’s not the store you bought the items at, Mila. It’s where the ingredients came from.”

  Her tongue felt too big for her mouth. “No, I know that. I just meant I can show you the brands, the sources. I know I was close to fifty.”

  “Based on quantities and yield, you came in at forty-eight percent.” His clipped voice made her blood pressure rise. “The legal team consulted with a culinary staff. It’s just facts, Mila.”

  Her head spun, and she placed a hand on the frosty window to steady herself. As her grape supply had dwindled, she knew the recipe had come close to the 50 percent mark, but she assumed the number was just a suggestion. It was March in the Northeast, how could they expect people to source butter, flour, sugar, and fruit locally this time of year?

  “What now?” she choked out.

  “That’s it. You’re disqualified.”

  All the breath in her lungs vacated in one slow, steady stream, taking the feeling in her limbs along with it. “You’re joking.”

  “I’m really sorry. I wish things were different, but you’re dealing with a huge company here. They have to protect themselves against anyone coming at them later and claiming one contestant was favored over others. You signed the paperwork when you entered, and so did everyone else. We have to follow the rules.”

  Vin’s voice held no hint of warmth, no indication that he was now or had ever been truly sorry. She couldn’t help but wonder if this would be happening if she’d continued to date him.

  “I can’t believe there’s nothing I can do,” Mila said. “We’re one week away from the bake-off. I’ve worked so hard. I . . . I’ve been testing like crazy for this next round. I’ve spent so much money.”

  She hated the tone pouring out of her, the feeble, whining words. She hated to beg.

  “I know,” he said. Clipped. Cold. “And I really am sorry. But again, it’s a legal issue. You made it to the final round with a dish that didn’t actually meet the requirements. To make it fair, we’d have to go back and start the entire competition over again. We just can’t. You understand.”

  “Sure.” She huffed out an angry breath. Sure. Why shouldn’t she understand? It was only everything she’d worked for crumbling at her feet. Karma showing its nasty face. Of course she’d been eliminated. She’d wanted it too hard. Believed in herself too much.

  “All right, well,” he said. “Again, sorry. Good luck with everything.”

  She slowly lowered the phone to her side, staring out over the dark parking lot outside her window, trusting that Vin had nothing important left to say.

  A few airy moments of silence passed until Jared said, “What happened?”

  “I’m out.” The words fell off her tongue, seemingly coming from someone else’s throat. She couldn’t quite believe them. “I’m disqualified. My pie had less than half the ingredients sourced from New York State, and now Indigo’s legal team says I can’t continue in the competition.”

  She swallowed, moving through the living room as if pushing through whipped cream, then lowered her body down onto the couch next to him.

  “You’ve got to be kidding.” His words sizzled like water in a hot pan. “No. No fucking way. That’s insane.”

  “Yeah.” She sniffed back her disbelief and stared at the coffee table where their dinner sat, cold and forgotten. “It’s insane.”

  “That can’t be the last word on it. Give me the phone, I’m gonna call him.”

  “J.” She looked at him, his face twisted up in anger. “Just don’t. Can you do me a huge favor?”

  “Anything.” He leaned toward her, his angular face telling her he’d leap tall buildings for her. Stare down the barrel of a gun. Pummel Vin into oblivion.

  “Drop it.”

  His eyes widened. “Drop it?”

  She licked her lips, her entire being vibrating with nerves and anxiety and fear. “I need to think about this, and I need to process it on my own. Your anger will get in the way of that. I need you to eat this pasta that probably tastes like old feet by now, I need you to put on a funny movie, and I need you to hold me while I sleep. Can you do that?”

  His mouth opened, an indignant cough passed his lips, and a deep blush rose in his smooth cheeks. “Honestly, Mila, I don’t know. I’m so pissed off.”

  “I know. I am, too.” She swallowed down threatening tears. “Pissed off and sad and embarrassed. Just let me process this on my own. Okay?”

  With another huff, he fell back on the couch. He rubbed his hands across his face and stared at her, his mouth still hanging open. “Am I allowed to ask if there’s any option for changing their minds?”

  “Vin said that’s it. There’s nothing else they can do.”

  He leaned over his knees, dragging his hands down his face, back up again, and shoving them through his hair to leave the tresses in disarray. She couldn’t help herself from thinking about how handsome he looked, indignant and sexy and properly angry on her behalf.

  He shook his head. “Are you okay?”

  Was she? Would she ever come back from this? Her skin prickled, her head swam. She was not okay. “I will be. I just really need this from you, okay? I need you to be calm for me. At least for tonight.”

  She knew the advice sat heavy on his tongue. He couldn’t help himself. But he remained silent, and she’d never been more grateful.

  As she flipped the television on and found a mindless nineties sitcom, a warm hand crept across her lower back. He squeezed lightly, summoning tears she thought she’d already willed away. His fingers pressed into her skin and brushed the ridges of her spine.

  She swallowed the lump in her throat and forced her gaze to his sweet face as he tucked into his spaghetti. She’d never loved him more.

  chapter seventeen

  Mila pulled the car into the strip mall parking lot, navigated her way into a space, and cut the engine.

  “Ooh, that bakery,” Caryl said. Her eyes lit up, and she clapped her well-manicured hands together at her chest. For reasons unknown, her mother always wanted to look her best for doctor’s appointments.

  “No bakeries,” Mila said. “You heard the doctor. You have to cut down on sugar. I feel like your drug dealer at this point.”

  “Oh, please,” Caryl said. “A slice of pie here and there isn’t going to kill me.”

  Mila tamped down anything else she might want to say about her mother’s diet and opened the driver’s side door. The spring air held a touch of warmth for the second consecutive day, and briefly, like a prisoner forgetting they were on death row, she realized they had a good shot at an outdoor Spring Bake-Off.

  The smooth, cold metal door handle brought her back to reality, and Mila allowed her mother inside the discount store ahead of her.

  “What’s that look for?” Caryl asked.

  “Huh? No look. I was just thinking.”

  They wandered slowly past discounted Easter baskets and last year’s chocolates to the women’s clothing section, where packed rows of off-brand blouses and pants promised treasures within.

  “This is sharp,” Caryl said, snagging a fuchsia silk blouse. She checked the price tag. “Thirty dollars? For this?”

  “It’s pretty,” Mila offered. “You should get it.”

  “Not worth it.” Caryl shoved the blouse back into the sea of clothes and stepped slowly to the right, eyes fixed on the options in front of her.

  Mila and her mother didn’t often shop together, but she needed an excuse to stay out of Pine Ridge. She didn’t want to be around people she knew, people who, by now, had surely heard the news. Disqualified. The shame. The utter ridiculousness of thinking she
had a shot at any of it. Everything she’d feared had come to fruition.

  Should’ve kept my freaking head down.

  “Hello? Earth to Mila?”

  Mila blinked, catching her mother’s curious eyes. Deep, penetrating, golden russet brown, the same color as Mila’s. Eyes a person can’t escape from.

  “Sorry,” Mila said. “What did you say?”

  “I asked where you wanted to have lunch after this. I like that Italian place over on Culver.”

  Mila cleared her throat. Her appetite vanished the moment she’d hung up the phone with Vin. Jared had eaten nearly the entire bowl of anchovy spaghetti by himself. “Sure, that sounds good.”

  With a hand still resting on the clothing rack in front of her, Caryl turned. She lifted one heavily penciled eyebrow and lowered her chin. “Are you going to tell me what’s going on? You look like you’ve got the weight of the world on your shoulders.”

  “It’s nothing.” The news burned Mila’s skin from the inside out, like trying to conceal live sparklers inside her mouth.

  “I don’t buy it.” Caryl stood firm. Unmoving. Mila knew how this would go if she fought back.

  “I got a call last night.” She swallowed, trying to force the frog from her throat. “I’ve been disqualified from the bake-off.”

  Caryl’s eyebrows knit tighter. “What did you say?”

  Mila gnawed on her thumbnail, chewed nearly to the quick, and pressed against the silk blouses to keep out of another shopper’s way.

  “There was a rule,” Mila said. “The recipe had to be made from at least fifty percent locally sourced ingredients, and mine wasn’t. That guy Vin called last night to tell me mine wasn’t within the parameters, and I’ve been disqualified.”

  “Oh no.” Caryl shook her head. “No. That’s absurd. How far off were you?”

  “Two percent.”

  Caryl’s head jerked backward as if someone had snapped her with a wet towel. “Excuse me? Two percent? No. Hell no. What did you say to him?”

  “I didn’t say anything, really. What am I supposed to say?”