Page 91 of This Life of Mine

He smiles. “It’s comfort food. My mom taught me when I was fourteen.”

That catches my attention. “Fourteen?”

“Yeah,” he says, reaching for the garlic. “We lived in Queens. Mostly an Italian neighborhood. Everyone cooked. Everyone argued about how to cook and who was the best cook. She figured if I learned early, I’d never starve.”

I watch him move—assured, practiced. The knife doesn’t hesitate in his hand; it obeys. Every motion feels instinctive, like something etched into muscle and bone long before tonight. He flips it, palms it, shifts his grip without looking—fluid, controlled. As if it isn’t a utensil at all, but an extension of him.

I’m certain he didn’t learn that in a kitchen.

“Okay wow. You’re pretty amazing with a knife.”

Alex stills mid-twirl, like he hadn’t realized he was doing it.

“Krav Maga,” he says, casually. “Defense training.”

And then, almost absently, the blade rolls once more across his fingers—deliberate—before he sets it down.

“So you’re Italian,” I say, more statement than question.

He chuckles. “I figured that would be obvious.”

I shrug. “You honestly never know. Here in Texas you could be anything. I thought you were maybe Latin of some origin, butI wasn’t sure. Pretty much all of my friends are Mexican. Most people assume I’m Mexican as well.”

“You do bake fresh Mexican Conchas at your bakery,” he says.

“Yes, but they aren’t the traditional ones. Ours have flavored toppings. Strawberry, Vanilla, Chocolate, and Coffee flavored.” I say, smiling at the thought of those warm and yummy breads.

“I’m a fan of your Strawberry ones. They are pretty amazing,” he says.

At that moment, it becomes clear to me he doesn’t have that Northern accent most New Yorkers have.

“Wait. You don’t have an accent,” I say.

That draws his attention to me, a brow lifting slightly. “No?”

“No,” I say. “I expected something. At least a hint of Queens. But you sound completely neutral.”

He smiles at that. Almost amused.

“I used to,” he says easily, turning back to the cutting board. “Thick. Queens, Italian, all of it layered together.”

“What happened?”

“I got rid of it,” he answers simply.

I blink. “On purpose?”

“Yes,” he says, glancing at me. “It didn’t serve me anymore.”

That’s interesting.

“I learned pretty early that people listen differently depending on how you sound,” he continues. “I wanted to appear more professional. Less like someone they could easily dismiss before I finished a sentence.”

“So you trained it out.”

He nods. “Took a while. Harder than people think.”

There’s something intimate about that admission. About choosing reinvention down to the way your voice leaves your mouth.