Stone takes a spatula and smacks it on his open palm. “This is a spatula. I know that now.”
Oh, I have this in thebag.
I cross my arms over my chest, nodding with a simpering smile. “Yes. Good job.”
Stone ignores my patronizing tone. “What were you making before the thought of having me as a partner made you run from the room?”
I almost lie. It’s tempting to give him a complicated recipe guaranteeing failure, like the chicken Milanese I mentioned. The Stone I remember couldn’t toast bread without burning the center, then smearing butter all over it to cover up his mistakes. That analogy also applies to his personality, charming in all the right ways when he does the worst to a person.
But tossing such a difficult recipe his way wouldn’t be fair or enjoyable to watch. As much as this new, robotic attitude absent of his once fiery personality grates on me, I want a fair win with no openings for him to point out that I cheated or stacked the odds against him. I’m still not sure why joining me at the restaurant is so important to him, but that’s probably not the point anymore.
Stone likes to win. Always has.
But so do I.
“Spaghetti Bolognese,” I say to him, joining Mrs. Stalinski on the stool beside her.
Stone purses his lips. I can practically see the wheels in his complicated mind turning.
I add, “With homemade meat sauce. Nothing from the jar.”
Mrs. Stalinski smacks the countertop. “Now we’re talking.”
Stone nods. “Easy.” He stares down at the sizzling pan of onions and garlic. “And you’ve already started mymis en place.”
I roll my eyes at his blatant use of knowledge he’s likely gained from the type of restaurants I can only dream of enjoying.
To my surprise, Stone turns down the heat under the pan, then goes to the pantry to sift around. After reappearing with an arm full of canned and fresh tomatoes, some dried herbs, and brown sugar, I fear I misjudged him.
He finishes his foraging by going into the fridge and pulling out the ground beef.
“Watch closely, because you’re really about to enjoy this, Lavender,” Stone says as he goes to the sink to wash the tomatoes, then to the cutting board to chop them.
Shit, he’s actually prepping.
“Living on my own in LA and becoming so busy,” he continues, “I sometimes forget to eat. But there’s a certain home-cooked meal I remember around midnight. I’d call Ma and she would tell me how to make a delicious meat sauce to put over pasta or stuff in peppers or put in a hoagie. An easy sauce that I couldfreezeand use whenever I need. You understand.” He ends me with rare a glint to his eye.
I fight against a glower. “How great for you.”
“It is.” Stone flashes his teeth at me before spinning and sliding the ground beef into the pan. “It took me many tries to get right. But once I did…” He picks up the wooden spoon and stirs, sending me a dimpled, closed-mouthed smile over his shoulder. “Magic.”
I turn to Mrs. Stalinski. “You were perfectly aware of this, weren’t you?”
With the most innocent expression I’ve ever seen, she blinks at me and shrugs.
“Traitor,” I mutter, then jolt as something clanks on the counter in front of me.
Stone bends to my level after setting down a healthy glass of red wine.
“Here. You’re going to need this,” he says.
My tongue feels stuck to the roof of my mouth. I reach for it and take a nice, long glug.
Stone’s spaghetti Bolognese ends up somewhat dry, over-salted, and stupidly delicious.
It takes all self-control not to lick the plate clean as the three of us sit at the breakfast bar and finish our meal.
To Mrs. Stalinski’s credit, she keeps her cat-got-the-canary expression to a minimum as she picks at her food and converses with Stone.
