Page 153 of Terms of Exposure
I elbowed him lightly. "You said we'd be here an hour ago."
He shrugged, unapologetic.
For the past three days he'd been talking about Rosie's cooking with religious devotion.
True Italian this.
Meatballs that.
Chicken cutlets to die for.
Her Bolognese could stop wars.
At some point he'd turned into a Dr. Seuss character.
Red fish.
Blue fish.
Garlic in every dish.
I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing as he reached for the front door.
"Ready?" he asked.
"As ready as I'll ever be."
The door swung open before either of us could knock.
Rosie stood there—
all five-foot-nothing of her, thin arms, warm olive skin, eyes wrinkled in the soft places and blazing in the sharp ones. Short dark hair styled with enough hairspray to disintegrate the ozone. Apron tied tight. Wooden spoon brandished like a weapon.
Delight and fire.
That was Rosie Holt.
"Finally!" she scolded. "You're late! Also Sebastian ruined the sauce again!"
Behind her, Sebastian popped his head out of the kitchen doorway.
"I did not ruin it—she's lying!"
"Get inside!" Rosie demanded. "Both of you."
Her eyes snapped to me.
"And take off your shoes, Emma. The floor's clean—I just mopped."
I stepped inside, the smell of tomatoes and garlic wrapping around me like a heated blanket.
"Yes ma'am." I slipped them off quickly, following her into the living room.
Rosie's house was… exactly what I'd imagined.
Doilies.
Everywhere.
