Her features scrunched in puzzlement. “Why?”
Because I can’t risk making out with you again. Ross cleared his throat, leaning his elbows on his desk, and tried to find a less blunt way to get the message across. “Because recently…we’ve…you know…the kissing.”
Mia rolled her eyes. “I will douse myself in coffee before you get there, and the smell will guarantee our separation for the evening. I already said I wouldn’t seduce you. But I promise to keep my hands to myself and be on my best behavior.”
The idea he would need to be protected from Mia was laughable. Except it wasn’t. So what if she used coffee as a deterrent? Was she also going to put away the dimple, amber eyes, and cute glasses as well? But, at the same time, they weren’t horny teenagers in high school anymore. They were two grownups. He could control himself, as could she.
His lips pulled into a slight smile. “Lasagna, huh?”
She grinned while doing an eyebrow wiggle, eyes glittering. “And the best part is, you don’t have to do any homework beforehand.”
Chapter Twenty-One
It was fiveforty-fivep.m., and a frazzled Mia was wondering if her whole plan was about to explode in her face like an overripe tomato. Her kitchen showed signs of a possible catastrophe in the making. The countertops were topped with a cabinet’s worth of dirty dishes and discarded ingredients. Plus, her apron was covered in red splotches due to a simmering meat sauce. She glanced at the kitchen clock again. If she didn’t inspect herself in a mirror now, it wasn’t going to happen.
At least the lasagna was in the oven. How it would taste remained a mystery. Judging by the mess surrounding Mia, the odds weren’t very good. Why did she put herself in this impossible situation? As though she’d be able to replicate something as fondly remembered as the Russo lasagna. If it didn’t taste close to the original, Ross would be disappointed, but Mia would be devastated.
Her mother had put together the recipe binder soon after marrying the judge, getting them from Grandma Russo. The famous lasagna dish was also one of her father’s favorites, and her mother perfected it throughout the years so eventually she didn’t need the binder. Italian, Mexican, or any type of food, Mia’s mom was an amazing cook, but the Italian recipe binder was the only one she ever put together.
There had always been plenty of time to get other recipes. Until there wasn’t.
All the favorite family meals her mom whipped up from experience and memory were gone. There wasn’t a binder for Mexican cuisine, because her mother had never needed one and Mia had never cared to learn. Mia wasn’t blessed with the same natural cooking talent, not that she tested herself much. Her last attempt at throwing things together based on gut instinct was a chicken enchilada verde six months prior. The meal was a flavorless mess, her tortillas broke apart, and it was nothing like her mom’s. Mia had sat on her bed and wept a bucket’s worth of tears while forcing herself to eat it.
But all wasn’t lost. There was still the Italian recipe binder. She held onto this binder in the hopes it was still possible to taste some of the home-cooked meals she remembered fondly. If her ability to follow a recipe also failed her, Mia worried these food moments were lost forever.
Tonight the biggest question was this: Did her mother scribble the wordnutmegon the ingredient list? It did look like the wordsdash of nutmeg. Did nutmeg belong in lasagna, mixed in with ricotta cheese? Was this another Mexican Italian fusion only done by her mom? Maybe it was supposed to be something else and only looked like the wordnutmeg. Perhaps Mia managed to ruin the whole lasagna with a sprinkle of holiday spice. She might as well toss in a pinch of cinnamon and ginger. This was definitely going to be a disas—
The doorbell rang.
She glanced over from her spot kneeling in front of the oven. She focused on her disheveled reflection appearing in the black oven door, the closest she had to a mirror. Disaster, party of two, walk this way. Nothing she could do about it now. She raked her fingers through her hair in an attempt to be halfway presentable and less chaotic.
On the other side of her family’s front door, Ross’s appearance was the opposite of her own: calm, put together in a nice navy blue sweater and dark gray jacket, looking like a man who exuded good smells.God, he looked amazing.There was something about him, which made her want to snuggle up and press her face into the firm wall of his chest.
“Hi! Come in,” she said, forcing a bright smile to her lips.
He hesitated, as though unsure if he should cross the threshold into the Russo home. But he managed to step forward through the time portal, and his eyes gave the living room a slow perusal. Mia could tell he was remembering, but his expression didn’t reveal if they were good or bad memories.
“Is it weird being back?”
“Something like that.” He gave her a quick scan. “Did you make a lasagna or fight one?”
Mia was still wearing the stained apron and yanked it over her head, snagging her hair in the process. “Ow,” she said, as she brushed a hand through her locks to smooth them. “I have to be honest. It was a battle to the death and I think the lasagna won. This is the first time I’ve tried to make this meal on my own, so the kitchen doesn’t look pretty.”
A smile graced his lips at her confession. “It smells exactly how I remember it.”
“Okay, well, that makes me feel a little bit better.”
“You do have a green speck of something on your glasses, though.”
He leaned closer, plucking it off the lens. Mia was sure she went cross-eyed as he held the green leaf between his fingers, because naturally she’d do the unsexiest thing when given the opportunity.
She took a guess. “Parsley, maybe?”
“Did anything make it into the lasagna? Because you seem to be wearing a lot of it.”
“If you’d like an appetizer, you can taste me.”Oh god! Why did I say that?Heat flashed across her skin as Ross stared at her. She’d never been so flustered in her life. “Never mind. Let’s go into the kitchen.”
He did a dead stop at the kitchen entrance, surveying the chaos. “Holy shit, Russo. How is it possible to make this much of a mess for one dinner?”
