Page 124

“Maybe …” he says. “Depends on how well the sauce turns out.”

“Okay, then. Prepare to be wowed.”

We get into a stride, working together. Marcus talks me through sautéing butter, olive oil and shallots. Then I add garlic and red pepper flakes, followed by the tomato paste.

“You want that to smell toasted before you pour in the vodka,” he says.

“Where did you learn to cook like this?” I ask, stirring the sauce and keeping my eye on it.

“This? Not until I was out of the house and making some money. I actually paid someone for cooking lessons. Some guys have personal chefs. I do pay to have some prepared meals delivered to me so I can keep my calorie intake secure, but I like cooking. It relaxes me. I learned to cook from my mom, though. Sometimes I’d cook the main meal when she had to work late or was picking up an extra shift.”

I don’t know what to say, so I just pick up the vodka and slowly add it to the pan.

Marcus comes around my side and sets a glass of lemonade on the counter.

“I made that this afternoon. I know it’s out of season, but I also know you probably love it year round.”

“I do,” I say, unable to say more.

I want to thank him. What I really want to do is to wrap my arms around him and kiss him.

Instead I clear my throat and say, “What’s next?”

He steps up closer and leans in to look at the pan of sauce. I make the mistake of inhaling. It smells like sauce, but also that cologne—and him.

“Turn down the heat and add the cream slowly.”

I do as I’m told, stirring as I pour.

“Now let it simmer and then turn it off to add the parm.”

He walks over to his indoor grill and takes the chicken out.

I turn the heat down, add the parmesan and stir.

“Now add the pasta,” Marcus says from across the kitchen. “It’s cooked and drained in that back pot.”

I lift the lid off the pot on the back burner and tip the pot over the pan of sauce.

Everything happens in an instant. The pasta comes out in one giant clump, plopping into the sauce and sending it splattering onto my face, hair, sweater and Marcus’s stovetop, counter and backsplash.

He starts laughing—and not a little bit.

“Cass! You okay there?”

“Fine. Yeah. Just fine,” I say, turning to look at him.

He actually points at me. “Oh, Cass. You’ve got sauce—everywhere.”

“I noticed,” I say.

Right then, his phone rings.

“I’ll get you a shirt. We can soak your sweater.”

He glances at his phone. He’s still chuckling to himself.

“It’s my mom. She’s FaceTiming me.”