Page 43 of Not on the Same Page

“What about them?”

“Who the fuck puts eggs in pasta? And bacon. Is this like breakfast coded or something?”

Casey pauses his stirring to shoot me a sidelong glance, but he starts up again before too much time has passed. “You’ve never had carbonara before?”

“Clearly not.” I take another sip of my wine.

“It’s a classic dish.” Apparently happy with the sauce, he takes the pan of bacon pieces and pours those into the pot, gently tossing it all together and adding a bit more cheese. “If you want to get really technical about it, you’re supposed to use guanciale.”

“What’s guanciale?”

He smirks before pulling down two bowls and setting them side-by-side next to the stove. “Pork jowl.”

I grimace. “Jowl is such a gross word.”

Laughing, he fills the bowls with pasta. “It’s tasty, but this is the way my mom used to make it.”

He goes silent, focusing intently on slowly and deliberately adding pasta to the bowls. I remember when his mom passed away three years ago. Cancer, I think. She was really young. Casey was still at JMP, but he and I had been working together on a few titles. He moved to Anastasios shortly after that. All work and no play at that point, but I still considered him a friend. And I know what it’s like to lose a mom. So I went to the funeral, stood in the back so no one would see me. But Casey did. His red-rimmed eyes found me as we were filing out of the church. He nodded at me, acknowledging my presence. I had intended to slip in and out undetected, but when he saw me, his shoulders straightened ever so slightly. The skin around his eyes relaxed just a little. And I was glad he knew I was there.

“I’m sorry, Casey,” I say softly, because sometimes that’s the best thing you can say. When my mom was arrested and I was shipped off to live with my aunt, everyone kept trying to tell me to look on the bright side, or insisted it was better for me to be with her than with my mom, or persuaded me that everything happens for a reason. I was so young, but I remember wanting someone to admit that the whole situation was shitty and leave it at that.

Casey places a bowl and a fork in front of me and finally meets my eyes. “It comes out of nowhere sometimes, you know?”

Fuck. Do I ever. But while I know the bare minimum about his mom, he knows nothing about mine. I’m not about to open that can of worms, so all I can do is nod.

Normally, I’m pretty good at intuiting what people need from me. I got good at it while living with my aunt in order to fly as far under their radar as I could and avoid being any more of a burden than I already was. It’s probably why I’m so damn good at my job. I flex that skill hard to keep my authors happy and negotiate with editors.

Casey is different. He’s sad, obviously. Who wouldn’t be? But I can’t tell what he wants from me, what would make him feel better. I’m sure he didn’t ask me over here to talk about his mom, but his face is carefully blank as usual and I don’t know which direction he wants me to pivot. So I decide to face it head-on.

“What do you need right now?”

His gaze dips, then meets mine again. “Distraction,” he says without hesitation.

That, I can do. After all, isn’t that what we’ve been doing for each other? A little shiver of anticipation runs up and down my spine, and I smirk at him suggestively.

“It would be a shame to let this food go cold.”

He considers this for a moment, then taps his fingers against the countertop. “I did work hard to make you this delicious meal.”

And just like that, the sadness is lifted. It’s still there, lurking under the surface, but I have a feeling that, for Casey—for both of us—it always will be. Best not to look at it too hard, or it’ll pull us under.

Without taking my eyes off him, I stick my fork in the pasta, twirl it, and bring it to my mouth. Casey watches me intently, and there’s no small amount of eagerness in his body language. I chew thoughtfully, making him wait for my feedback, but it’s delicious. Warm, creamy, and comforting. I can see exactly why his mom used to make this dish. It’s comfort food, and it’s a simple recipe that makes plenty to feed a family. I take another sip of wine to wash it down, and he’s right—the pinot grigio pairs exceptionally well with the pasta, the acid cutting through the fat of the dish.

“Wow, Casey. This is really good.”

He huffs as he places his bowl near the seat next to me and comes around to sit. “Don’t act so surprised.”

“Not surprised at the fact that you can cook.” I point my fork in his direction. “Surprised that eggs and bacon in pasta isn’t weird.”

“Somehow, it works.” He glances at me. “Sometimes two things that shouldn’t go together actually blend pretty well.”

It’s a pointed statement, like he’s trying to tell me something about us, but I’m not sure what he means. We’re not very similar on paper, but our chemistry has always been off the charts—something I’m reminded of as his darkened gaze zeros in on me again.

But he doesn’t continue in that line of thought. Instead, we make small talk while finishing our food and wine, the energy between us electrifying the air with excitement.

I try to slow down and savor the food, but we both finish quickly. Casey said he needed a distraction, and I can’t wait to give him one.

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