Page 30 of All's Fair in Love and Pizza
“Nice knowin’ ya, Cuz.”
“What is this about?” My mom pointed an accusatory finger at my cousins and me, and suddenly, I felt about ten years old.
I half expected my dad to materialize out of the blue with a stained apron, flour in his hair, and eyes ablaze with his special brand of no nonsense attitude and easy humor. And Uncle Sal would pop in, too. His hands would be covered with dough, and he’d be humming an Elvis tune, something sappy like “Can’t Help Falling in Love.” He’d chuckle at our familiar groan of embarrassment and say, “They don’t make ’em like that anymore.”
The stab of pain cut me to the core. I missed my dad and my uncle every day. They would have had big opinions about the bake-off. And Rob. I honestly thought they’d adore the guy on principle. A retired pro football player and a Haverton alum…automatic good-guy status. I had no doubt they’d remember Rob from his college days, too. They might even remember his order.
So yeah, they’d approve of him. Us…together? Not so much.
I swept maudlin thoughts aside and refocused on my family. “We were just discussing the bake-off. I met with Rob last night and?—”
“He gave him our marinara recipe,” Vanni tattled.
My mother and aunt gasped on cue.
“No, I didn’t. I gave him basic information…no spices. Well, not ours. I swear.” I held my hand up like a Boy Scout, then gestured to my watch. “If we’re done with the inquisition, it’s time to get to work, huh?”
Vanni and Jimmy shrugged and loped out of the kitchen, each armed with a tray of parmesan and red pepper flakes for the newly cleaned tables. Sal shot a meaningfully glance my way and returned to his sauce.
“I think it’s nice that you’re helping the neighbor.” Aunt Sylvie patted my cheek a smidge too hard. “Don’t help too much, though. We don’t want him to win, do we?”
She toddled toward the stove to give Sal a tip or two. I’d normally jump in to save him, but today, I figured he deserved some motherly meddling. I mean, c’mon…he knew me better than to think I’d share sacred recipes. He knew that I?—
Oh. Shit.
Sal knew me. Which meant he’d probably put two and two together and realized I was more likely to forward a link to a competitor than to go to his house and give a personal cooking lesson. I bit the inside of my cheek hard, suddenly glad my mom and aunt had shown up before any real fireworks got started.
Except, my mother knew me too, and she had that “look” in her eye. The one that expertly called out my bullshit and reminded me that she wasn’t born yesterday.
I smiled tightly and spared another glance at the time. “I should open up.”
She remained silent, raking me over from head to toe.
“Yes,” she said, finally breaking the silence.
“Ma…whatever you’re thinking, you’re wrong.”
“Am I?”
“Yeah, I?—”
“Shh. Come.” She motioned for me to kiss her cheek. I obeyed automatically, breathing in the scent of her familiar perfume. “You like him, I like him. But don’t give out my spices. Not yet.”
“Oh, my God,” I grumbled, grinding my molars in frustration.
“Invite him to dinner. This Sunday,” she insisted, fussing with the tie on my apron.
“Ma…”
“Who?” Aunt Sylvie asked.
“The young man next door. The football player.” Ma hooked a thumb in the general direction of the bagel shop.
My aunt blinked behind her leopard-print readers. “You and the football player? Oh, I like that!”
“No. We’re not?—”
“He’s a nice man,” Aunt Sylvie continued, undeterred. “Good-looking too, isn’t he? And big, you know! Big all over probably…if you know what I mean.”
