Page 31 of The Mountain Man's Mail-Order Mafia Princess

“I was doing fine before you arrived.”

“I’m sure the trees appreciated your range.”

He turned back to the cabinet, still smiling.

I unpacked the toiletries in the bathroom, placed the new clothing in one drawer Jonah cleared, and hung the red dress from the bedroom door.

My stilettos remained beside the dresser.

They looked offended by the boots.

When I returned to the kitchenette, Jonah had set the canned tomatoes, beef, onions, garlic, and pasta on the counter.

“What are you making?” he asked.

“Sunday gravy.”

“It’s Sunday?”

“That’s not the point.”

He glanced toward the window as though the trees might confirm the day.

I pulled a pan from beneath the stove. “My grandmother made it whenever she wanted the family to stay at the table until they heard each other.”

“Did it work?”

“Usually. Nobody leaves while there’s pasta.”

“That seems less like communication and more like containment.”

“It’s hospitality.”

“What do you need me to do?”

I handed him an onion.

“Dice that.”

He took the onion and reached for a knife.

“Small pieces,” I added.

“I know how to cut an onion.”

“You use canned sauce with sugar.”

“I didn’t buy it.”

“You put it in the basket.”

“Because I thought you might want sauce.”

“I wanted ingredients.”

“I do now.”

I watched him cut the onion.