4
Jane
“We should probably start dinner,” Andrew says as his stomach growls loudly in response. “How do you feel about pasta from scratch?”
“My nonna would say that’s the only kind to make,” I tell him, breaking into a huge smile. “She always said to never depend on that store-bought imposter stuff.”
Andrew chuckles. “I think my meemaw would have been best friends with your nonna,” he says. “I also was taught the importance of homemade. I have the machine back home that flattens and makes the perfect size and length, but we’ll have to go old-fashioned here.”
“Let’s do it!”
We both launch in unison off the floor. I stumble a bit as I stand. Andrew reaches his arms out to steady me. Our eyes meet, and I feel the electricity sizzle along my nerve endings.
“Are you okay?” Andrew asks, genuine concern lacing his voice. His hands still linger on my shoulders.
My heart is pounding in my chest, and my breath hitches. “I’m fine.” I swallow hard.
I’m certainly anything but fine.
Angus jumps from the couch directly at us, causing us to step back in surprise. Andrew catches him and starts rubbing him, whispering something about interrupting.
I take the interruption and head for the kitchen, working to get my emotions in check. I haven’t been single for long, and maybe the magical holiday season has gotten the better of me. I just called off my engagement and impending wedding a few days ago. Even though I’m drawn to him in ways I never have been with anyone else, Andrew and I simply can’t happen. Reality will impose itself once the storm stops brewing outside. He’ll go back to his busy detective life, and I’ll go back to chasing the next story.
“I think Angus has his fill of love for now. Puppies are so needy,” Andrew says, coming up behind me. “I’ll grab the eggs.”
“I’ve got the flour and salt.” We move in unison to gather ingredients to the counter. “Did your meemaw teach you how to cook?”
“Yes, she was a wonderful woman. When I was growing up, she’d pull me into the kitchen when she was cooking. She died about three years ago, but I learned a lot from her,” he offers up. “What about Nonna?”
“She lives with my parents now. I don’t get home as often as I should, but she is as fiery as ever. Last year she gave me a recipe book where she put little notes about how I could tweak every recipe to make it better. There is not an opinion she won’t express. There isn’t anything I’ve written that she hasn’t edited. She speaks her mind and has strong opinions. I love her tenacity.” I laugh thinking about the precious but strong minded old lady.
“I get that,” Andrew says. “If Meemaw said something, not a soul would disagree with her. Maybe it was respect, but the fear I saw in my father’s eyes when he considered defying her tells me that it wouldn’t have been worth it. So no one challenged her.”
“Exactly. I hope someday to strike that sort of unrepentant love and worship into the hearts of my offspring,” I laugh.
“One can only hope,” Andrew replies and laughs with me.
Sharing stories of our grandmas with strong personalities is just another thing we have in common. The powwow I had with myself five minutes ago? Yep, it’scompletely out the window. And the smile on my face? I’m pretty sure it’s permanent. It won’t hurt just enjoying this time with him…right?
“So what brought you here?” Andrew asks, cracking an egg into the flour well we created on the counter.
“To Silver Valley?”
“Yeah, is it a simple getaway or did you come here for a more specific reason? Like a break from the hustle?”
“A little bit of both. My job is demanding, to put it lightly. A little breather is nice…but it’s more personal drama I’m escaping from than anything.”
“Personal drama?” Andrew raises his eyebrows.
“Yeah, you know…the kind that involves broken engagements and still going on the honeymoon.” I shrug, trying to play it off casually as I knead the dough. There’s something calming about the rhythm of shaping the dough in my hands.
“Oh, I see.” He’s silent for a moment. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Well, it was initially my decision. We parted ways amicably,” I explain, dusting my hands with flour. “Sometimes you realize that what seems perfect is actually just…pretty.”
“Pretty?” Andrew echoes, his brown eyes twinkling with amusement.
“Yeah. It’s like…when you see a cake in a bakery window. It looks so perfect and delicious that you have no choice but to buy it. But then when you take a bite, you find out that it’s just pretty. There’s no flavor, no substance to it.”
