Page 76 of This Could be Love

I blinked as if I’d misheard. “Does that mean you aren’t angry anymore?”

“It means I cooked too much pasta.”

A timid smile appeared at the corner of my mouth. Then I nodded. “Pasta would be great.”

“Then I’ll put some in that Tupperware there for you.”

I froze.

“That was a joke.” He chuckled. “You should have seen your face.”

I felt the soft redness creeping into my cheeks and rolled my eyes. Meanwhile, he lifted the lid and fished a noodle out of the water. He brought it to his mouth, and I began to stare at his lips a little too enthusiastically.

“Just right,” he decided while continuing to chew, and moved to dump the pot into a colander already in the sink.

“Should I set the table or something?” I asked, to have something to do other than just stand around.

“You can grab the pesto from the fridge.”

I nodded and opened the refrigerator. I scanned all the things inside, the foreign packages and brands, but nothing reminded me of the Barilla pesto I was used to in Munich.

“Um, are you sure that…”

“Glass jar, middle shelf.”

I flinched, as I hadn’t noticed him sidle up to me at all. His mouth was so close to my ear I could feel his breath. And then Imade a mistake and looked to the side. Brushed his cheek with the tip of my nose. The unexpected touch made me take a step back, knocking my head on the door in the process.

“This okay?” he asked, taking a tiny step toward me. I could feel the cold at my back, but, above all, his closeness. Somehow I managed to nod. He stretched out a hand, and for a fraction of a second I thought he was going to caress my cheek. But then he reached past me and grabbed a jar. Although it was covered with a layer of plastic wrap, the smell of garlic and basil was powerful.

“I hope you like pesto Genovese.”

I was impressed by how easily the word rolled off his tongue. Whenever Dad tried to use any Italian words, my mother and I would burst out laughing.

“Of course. Though, to be honest, I’ve never had homemade pesto before.”

“It’s going to ruin you for any other kind.”

“Now,someone sounds a little convinced about their pesto skills.”

“It’s an old family recipe.”

“Isn’t that something that only happens in Hollywood movies?”

“In Hollywood movies and with the Trevis of Bologna. My Mom was Italian.”

“Oh! So…you grew up bilingual?”

“Not really. Mom tried, but…she preferred to speak English. When her dad accepted a job here in the States and they all moved over, she’d just turned five. I think she felt more at home here than she ever did in Italy.”

“What was her name?”

“Luciana.” He narrowed his eyes. “What?”

Only then did I realize I was smiling.

“Nothing.” Seeing his confused expression, I said, “A lot of people seem to have a hard time pronouncing Italian, but out of your mouth it sounds so…beautiful.”

My compliment seemed to embarrass him. He smiled in an unusually shy way before proceeding to pull off the plastic wrap. The pesto’s full aroma unfolded, and I let out an overjoyed sigh.