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“This guy is always hungry,” Zara says of Cole. “Like twenty-four seven.”
Evie pours Cole another drink and hops off the stool. “Let me whip something up.”
Zara immediately protests. “No way. We did not come interrupt you for a private meal.”
Evie’s already shaking her head. “Stop. It’ll be fun. If you don’t have plans, stay. Eat. Drink. If I can’t do that here, with friends, what the hell good is having a restaurant?”
I love her.
Not in that sense. Like the real sense. But just in a “she’s pretty awesome” kind of way.
“We’ve got some things prepped already. It’ll only take a few minutes. Anyone opposed to pasta?”
“Hell no,” Cole isn’t shy to answer.
“Ok, I’ll be back in a few minutes.”
Evie jumps up, grabs her drink and walks toward the kitchen. I watch her, belatedly realizing my admiration has an audience.
It takes all of three seconds to decide what to do next.
“Enjoy your drinks. I’m gonna help Evie with the meal.”
Cole mutters something to the effect of, “I’m sure you are,” as I walk away.
19
Evie
After adding water to a pot to boil, I pull ingredients from the refrigerator and place each on the prep counter. Using my favorite knife, I’m beginning to slice tomatoes when the doors swing open.
Tristano looks around the kitchen.
“Zones,” he says. “I had a hard time deciding on whether or not to make ours island style or not.”
Having my biggest competitor in my kitchen doesn’t feel as threatening as it probably should.
“I thought of redesigning the kitchen in the renovations but decided to stick to what everyone is accustomed to, even if it’s a switch for me.”
“Can you use some help?”
I could make this dish with my eyes closed. But instead of saying that, I pull down a second knife and move down.
As soon as he’s in my space, the fresh basil scent is replaced by his cologne, only strong enough to smell as he stands just next to me. When I breathe deeply, the deliciousness of the two begin to intermingle.
“Pasta con pomodoro e basilico?”
“I figured it would be quick and simple.”
As he cuts tomatoes in half and deseeds them, I pull out a skillet to heat the oil.
“My mother would make this,” I tell him, “like other moms would make peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.”
“Your mom was Italian?”
I grab the garlic to peel it. “She was. But not like your parents. I mean, she didn’t come from Italy. She was third generation.”
His hands move quickly, almost mesmerizingly so.
