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My mind unconsciously tumbles back to all the times I was desperate for a break and showed up unannounced on his doorstep.
“Are you two close?”
I nod. “We are. He and Aunt Mary are great. They never had children, so they kind of treat me like one.” No matter how much time slips by, when we’re together, it’s comfortable and easy. I trust them implicitly.
It took years to realize just how precious those kinds of relationships are. When you have fame, people behave differently toward you. They stop treating you like a person.
And you become more of an object.
Something to be coveted.
To my knowledge, Uncle Sully has never told a soul that Bebe is his niece or that he’s even acquainted with her.
“How come you didn’t stay with them for at least the first semester? Maybe then you would have met someone to live with.”
I shrug. “They offered, but I wanted my own space. And I didn’t want to cramp their style. They’re used to being on their own.” And so am I.
A comfortable silence falls over the two of us as he stirs the sauce and adds the noodles to the boiling pot. For the first time since moving into the apartment, the place is filled with delicious scents. My belly growls in response.
“Everyone on the team loves Sully,” Colby adds. “He’s the best.”
My lips lift into a genuine smile as everything inside me loosens. From the few times I’ve hung out with the girls at the bar, that much is obvious. He has a lot of love for the team, and they return it tenfold.
“He’s easy to get along with.”
There’s a pause as he changes the subject. “So, tell me what kind of meals your parents made growing up.”
It’s tempting to bark out a laugh.
As a kid, we didn’t get a lot of homecooked dinners. Mom is a lot of things, but a Michelin-star chef is not one of them. As soon as we could afford it, she hired a private chef. I was usually working or traveling, so I missed out. Uncle Sully and Aunt Mary are amazing and sometimes send over leftovers, but that doesn’t happen nearly often enough.
“Um, I guess the normal kind of stuff like spaghetti?—”
He glances at me while stirring the sauce. “From a jar?”
My lips tremble at the disgust woven through his voice. “Of course.”
He shakes his head. “That’s practically child abuse.”
“Um, I don’t think so. And tacos.”
“Can I assume there were a lot of taco Tuesdays in your past?”
“And sometimes Thursdays and Sundays.”
“So, you like Mexican?”
“Even though we ate a ton of it as a kid, I do. It’s definitely a comfort food.”
His expression turns thoughtful. “Noted. The way to your heart is through tacos.”
I snort, wanting to disabuse him of the notion.
Except…he’s probably not wrong.
“Have you been to Taco Loco?” he asks.
I rack my memory. “No, I don’t think so.”
“We’ll have to go sometime. You know, when we have date night. They have the best Tacos in town. Maybe even in the state.”
“That’s a pretty big claim.”
“It’s one I stand firmly behind.” He drains the noodles in a strainer set in the sink. “What else?”
“Macaroni and hot dogs. Chicken nuggets. Sometimes grilled cheese and tomato soup.”
“My stomach hurts just thinking about eating all that.”
“Yeah. Not exactly the dinners of champions, is it?”
“Nope. What about when you were older?”
I take another drink of water before setting the glass down on the table. “Once we could afford it, Mom hired a private chef to cook for us or we ate out.”
“You’ve mentioned your mom a couple times. What about your dad?” His gaze flickers to me as he layers the noodles, ricotta mixture, and meat sauce. “Are you close to him?”
Nerves skitter across my flesh, leaving behind a trail of goosebumps in their wake.
It’s important to tread carefully while talking about my parents.
“Yeah, I am.” I pause for a moment to collect my thoughts. “My father is a good man. More of the strong silent type. Lowkey. He’s happy to allow my mom to make all the decisions and then go along with whatever she says. She has a strong personality, and he doesn’t really challenge her.”
The few times he tried, she steamrolled right over him.
“Interesting.”
His brows draw together as he concentrates on layering the lasagna before sprinkling the top with mozzarella and sliding it into the oven. Then he sets the timer on his phone.
“Now we wait an hour and fifteen minutes.”
I glance at the clock on my phone. “Will you have enough time to eat before practice?”
“Probably not. I’ll have some when I get back. After two hours on the ice, I’ll be starving.”
He slides onto a chair before peppering me with questions about my childhood. When they turn to the not-so-distant past, I decide to ask a few of my own.
