I sniff, wipe my cheeks with my forearms, before I realize too late that I'm covered in flour, and then step forward again.
I grab a pot, fill it with water, and set it on the stove. The burner clicks as I light it. After a few minutes, the water boils, and I pour salt in, followed by boxed rigatoni.
I’m not admitting defeat yet, but I think it’s best to focus on one new thing at a time. I put the pepper and oil back on the heat and, once the pasta has been boiling for a few minutes, I deem the water “pasta enough,” and ladle some out.
My phone rings.
I grab it without thinking to prevent myself from throwing my hands in the air. “Pennino.”
“Counselor.”
I go still, ladle still hovering over the hot pan.
“How did you get this number?”
“Come now, Elena,” Luca says, clearly amused.
Of course. He’s Luca Conti.
“You shouldn’t be calling me,” I say. My body is frozen in fight or flight mode. Should I signal the marshals?
Is he outside my apartment? Why is he calling me?
I drop the ladle into the pasta and step toward the blinds, sliding my finger under one and lifting it just barely. It’s dark out, and I can’t see anything.
“Then hang up,” Luca says calmly.
But I don’t.
Oil pops on the stove.
“Shit.” I step back and turn it off, removing the pan from the heated burner.
“Problem, Counselor?” Luca says in that infuriatingly amused voice. “You sound… flustered.”
“Nothing you need to worry about,” I say.
“Hmm,” he simply says.
I have no idea why—maybe the day, the whole damn week, has worn my filter down to nothing—but I find myself saying: “I’m trying to make dinner, and it’s a mess. It’s your fault.”
“My fault?”
“Yes, your fault. And that damn latte,” I say, then pull my phone away from my ear and put it on speaker.
Why am I still talking to him? I should hang up. I should call the marshals.
I should be more scared. Why aren’t I?
“I was simply trying to be courteous,” he responds, and I hear a squeak on his end.
Where is he right now? Is he at home? Is he in his office? The kitchen? Is he eating his own dinner?
Why do I have so many questions?
I huff out a laugh. “Courteous? You knew exactly what you were doing,” I grit out, turning off the pasta water. “You knew damn well what would happen when you handed me that cup.”
“Hmm,” he says, but I can hear the smile in his voice. Then: “What are you making?”
