Just Roll With It (Perfect Dish Romances Book 4)

by Tawdra Kandle

  “Awww, nice to meet you, Miss Frankie.” Phil leaned through my door and offered his hand, and Frankie, ever the well-mannered child trained by a strict Italian grandmother, smiled politely.

  “I don’t think Ms. Simmons has been out today. Last time I saw her was yesterday afternoon, when she came in from class. Come to think of it, she was dragging a little even then. I hope she’s okay.”

  “Yeah.” I opened the door to the backseat to help Frankie climb out and to retrieve a couple of paper grocery bags. “I’m sure she will be.”

  “Hey, listen, you need anything—medicine or whatever—you just call down, and we’ll take care of you, okay? I can run to the drugstore, no problem at all.”

  I smiled. For a long time, I’d looked on the people who worked in Amanda’s building as shameless suck-ups, and privately, I’d scoffed at the idea of having hired help. But the longer I knew all of them and the more often I visited, I realized that Phil and Rocky genuinely liked Amanda. Along with the rest of the men and women who worked at her building, they were almost like a family. I had to respect that.

  Rocky greeted us, and when I explained why we’d come, he expressed the same concern Phil had.

  “You know, when she came in yesterday, I thought maybe she looked a little peaked. But then again, on Fridays, she usually tends to be more tired.” He shook his head. “She works too hard, that one.”

  “We’ll take care of her.” I gave Rocky a little wave and pointed to the elevator. “Want to hit the button, sport? We need to go up pretty high in this building to check on Amanda.”

  The doors slid shut behind us, and I showed Frankie where to push the button for Amanda’s floor. Her eyes went wide as the car whooshed upwards.

  “It goes so fast!” She clutched at the polished wooden rail. “It’s much faster than the one at the mall.”

  I chuckled. “The elevator at Macy’s only goes up two floors, sport. Amanda lives up on the thirty-fifth level.”

  “That’s really, really high up.”

  “Yeah, wait’ll you see the view.”

  The doors opened, and we stepped out onto the plush carpet of the wide hall. I led Frankie to Amanda’s apartment door.

  “Do we knock? Or does she have a doorbell?” Frankie looked around the doorjamb, and I grinned, realizing my niece had never been in this kind of apartment building. She was strictly a small-town kid.

  “We don’t have to do either. I have a key.” I dug in my pocket and pulled out my keyring, shaking it until I found the right one.

  “Uncle Vince?” Frankie glanced up at me. “Is Amanda—your friend—is she your girlfriend, too?”

  “Uh . . . why’re you asking me that?” I unlocked the deadbolt and then slid the key into the knob.

  “Because you looked really upset when you were talking to her on the phone, and you have a key to her apartment.” She took on a canny expression, and she looked so much like my mom that I almost shivered.

  “You know what, sport? That’s really not your business.” I flicked her on the nose. “Now, be quiet when we go inside. If Amanda’s asleep, we don’t want to wake her up.”

  The living room was empty and silent, though I spied a pair of Amanda’s shoes under the coffee table. Seeing the heels there made me smile a little; she was always barefoot inside, and the first thing she did when she got home was to kick off whatever footwear she had on.

  “Stay right here, and don’t touch anything.” I pointed to the sofa. “Sit down. I’m going to check on Amanda, and then . . . we’ll see what happens next.”

  Frankie nodded, and I saw her gaze sweep around the room, taking it all in. Frankie wasn’t exactly a sheltered kid; she’d been hanging out at Cucina Felice since she was an infant, so she’d heard it all. But her experience was solely within the confines of our small hometown and our extended family. She could chatter in the familiar half-Italian, half-English that we all spoke, but I wasn’t sure she’d ever been to Philadelphia.

  Leaving her in the living room, I made my way down the hall toward Amanda’s bedroom, smiling wryly as I remembered the first time I’d been here with her, carrying her to her bed, both of us naked. That was a particularly sweet memory, even notwithstanding the part where I’d tripped over her shoes and almost broken her neck and my dick.

  Her bedroom door was partially open, and the room beyond was dark. Having learned my lesson, I picked my way in cautiously. She’d actually gotten a little better about putting things away lately, at least when I came over. I wasn’t sure if that was because she wanted to impress me or I was actually a good influence. I also wasn’t certain which possibility made me more comfortable.

  My eyes adjusted to the lack of light slowly. The covers on Amanda’s bed were rumpled, but she wasn’t in them. I pulled them back and smoothed one hand over the pillow, frowning as I looked around the room.

  The bathroom door was ajar, and there was a dim light on in there. As I wandered in that direction, I spied one bare foot on the floor, and my heart began to pound.

  Amanda was sprawled on the bathroom floor, her eyes closed, one hand extended over her head. For an agonizing, soul-rending moment, I thought she wasn’t breathing . . . and then I saw the slight rise of her chest, and my blood began to flow again.

  Thank God. It was all I could think as I dropped to my knees next to her and pressed a hand to her forehead.

  She was hot to the touch, her face radiating heat that told me her temperature had to be pretty high. As I stroked her cheek, her eyes fluttered open and tried to focus on me.

  “Vincent?” Her voice was low and raspy, and wincing, she tried to cough.

  “Shhhh.” I brushed a lock of hair from her face. “You’re burning up, baby. I think you’ve got a fever.”

  She blinked. “I’m sick, Vincent. I feel really, seriously horrible.”

  “Oh, baby, I know you do.” I glanced down her body. She was wearing yoga pants and a threadbare tank top. I was enough of a perv that I didn’t miss how awesome her boobs looked even now, when the rest of her looked like death warmed over, as my nonna often said.

  “Let’s get you into something clean and comfortable, okay?” I snaked one hand under her neck and the other beneath her knees and then stood, cradling Amanda against my chest.

  “The pants hurt my stomach. And I threw up so much. My throat hurts and I think I smell bad.”

  “I figured you’d be happier with just a big T-shirt or something.” Laying her carefully on the bed, I turned to the huge oak dresser and began opening drawers.

  “Second on the left,” Amanda mumbled. “There’s a drawer full of nightgowns. I’ll wear one of those.”

  When I found the drawer she was talking about, I gaped down into it. Amanda hadn’t been kidding when she’d said it was full of nighties; there were piles of them, each folded neatly, unworn, with the tags still attached.

  “My grandma in England.” She sounded groggy. “Every year, she sends one for Christmas. They’re some kind of specialty cotton, I guess. I don’t wear them, though. Usually I like to just sleep . . . you know. Tees and stuff.”

  “Yeah, but I think you’re right. One of these will be perfect for now.” I shook one of them out. “It won’t hit your stomach, and it’ll keep you cool. We need to bring that temp down, and I’m not sure you can handle ibuprofen with the nausea.” I bent to take hold of the hem of her tank. “Arms up.”

  “Is this a cheap way to get a look at my boobs?” A brief flash of humor danced through her eyes.

  “If that was the case, it would make me a sad, desperate man, honey. Besides, I don’t have to be desperate. You let me see your pretty tits whenever I ask.”

  “True.” She was quiet as I dropped the fine white cotton over her head and helped her pull her arms through. I knelt in front of her and rolled off the yoga pants. Balling up both the shirt and pants, I took them into the bathroom and tossed both into her laundry hamper.

  “Now you lie down.” I lifted her legs up onto
the mattress and tucked the sheet over them. “I’m going to get you something to drink and grab the thermometer so we can see how high that temp is.”

  “I don’t have a thermometer.”

  “I brought one. Lay still. I’ll be right back.”

  When I returned to the living room, Frankie was standing by the window, staring out. “It’s a really long way down there, Uncle Vince.”

  “It is, so don’t fall through the window, or Nonna will kill me.” I hoisted the grocery bags. “Come on in the kitchen with me. We’re going to get this chicken soup started, and you can watch it while I take Amanda some ginger ale.”

  “Okay.” She followed me into the kitchen, and we began working together in companionable silence. Most kids her age would’ve been a mess in the kitchen, but Frankie knew what she was doing. While I unwrapped the chicken and washed it off, she scrubbed a couple of carrots and snapped them into pieces and then peeled an onion and chopped it into chunks.

  “How come we brought your knives? Why can’t we just use Amanda’s?” Her forehead creased into a frown as she snapped off several stalks of celery.

  I snorted. “Amanda doesn’t own knives, sport. She doesn’t cook.”

  If I’d just told my niece that Amanda had wings and could fly around the globe, she couldn’t have looked more shocked. In Frankie’s experience, everyone cooked. It didn’t matter if you were a man or a woman or what age you were—everyone in our family, everyone we knew, cooked.

  “She’s just different than us, sport. She was brought up in a different place, and her mom has an important job. So they ate out a lot.”

  “Huh.” Once again, Frankie sounded suspiciously like her namesake, my mom.

  I filled the stock pot with water, watching it cascade over the chicken, and set it on the stove top. “Toss those veggies in there, and some salt and pepper, too. I’ll be right back.”

  Armed with a tall glass and the brand-new thermometer I’d picked up on our way here, I returned to the bedroom. Amanda hadn’t moved, but she opened her eyes as I approached the bed.

  “Thanks. I’m so thirsty.” She raised her hand to take the glass, but I held it out of reach.

  “First we take your temperature. If you drink this cold ginger ale, the thermometer won’t give us an accurate reading.”

  She sighed. “Fine.” Opening her mouth wide, she stuck out her tongue, and I slid the thermometer beneath it.

  Since she couldn’t talk, I tried to talk to fill the silence. “If you hear me talking to someone in the kitchen, don’t worry. I’m not losing my mind. I brought Frankie with me.”

  Amanda’s forehead knit together, confusion in her eyes.

  “See, that was one reason I was calling you this morning. Ma called me this morning and asked me if Frankie could stay with me this weekend. My uncle is having emergency gallbladder surgery, and that means my mother went to the hospital to sit with his wife—her sister. Since it’s my weekend off, Carl is pulling double duty at the restaurant, and Ange took the baby to see her mother down in Delaware.”

  Amanda nodded, wincing a little. I figured her head must’ve been hurting her pretty bad.

  “I was going to see if you still wanted to come down. I thought we could take Frankie to the boardwalk, walk around, play the arcade games . . . you know, just hang out. So when I came up here instead, I just brought her along with me. She’s helping me make you some chicken soup.” Checking the time, I reached for the thermometer. “Okay, let’s see what we’ve got.”

  “Can I have a drink now?” She gazed longingly at the glass in my hand.

  “Uh huh. Take it slow, though. You don’t want it coming back up.” Squinting at the glass rod in my hand, I frowned. “Yeah, you’ve got a fever, all right. A hundred and two. You’re really sick, honey.”

  She sipped the ginger ale. “I know. I feel a little better now that you’re here, but when I first woke up, I just wanted to die.”

  “Hmmm. Well, work on keep that ginger ale down. It’ll help you to stay hydrated. And it’s the actual real deal—Ma bottles her own ginger ale, because she swears the stuff you buy in the grocery store will kill you.”

  “It’s delicious.” Amanda dropped her head back against the pillows. Her face was pale, and even her lips were nearly colorless.

  “Do you think you need to see a doctor?” I was concerned about her temperature. I knew it was burning off the bad stuff, but a fever that high was scary.

  “No. There’s a virus going around at school, and three people in my study group had it last week. I guess it’s my turn. But because it’s viral, there’s nothing to do but wait it out.” She looked absolutely miserable as she said it.

  “That’s all right.” I patted her hand. “We’re going to take care of you. My chicken soup is better than any medicine a doctor could give you, anyway.”

  “Okay.” She handed me back the glass, and I set it on her nightstand before I went into the bathroom and found a clean washcloth. After I ran it under cold water, I wrung it out and folded it, laying it over Amanda’s forehead.

  “That should help with the fever and your headache. Now you close your eyes. Try to sleep. I’ll be back in to check on you in a little bit.”

  “’kay.” She sighed, and then as I made my way out of her bedroom, she called out. “Vincent.”

  “Yeah, baby?”

  “Thank you. Thank you for coming and for taking care of me and for not letting me die alone here.”

  I smiled. “You’re not going to die, baby. Not on my watch. But you’re welcome, anyway. Now get some sleep.”

  When I woke up, it was because Vincent was replacing the washcloth on my head with a new, cooler one. I blinked, groggy, trying to figure out what was going on. He smoothed my hair away from my face.

  “You’re all right, sweetheart. It’s okay. I’m just checking on you.” He pressed his lips to my cheek. “You might be a little cooler, but you’re still feverish.” Sliding one arm beneath my back, he helped me to sit up. “I brought you more ginger ale. Fresh, not watery. Have some of this.”

  I sipped it, grateful for the cool liquid sliding down my burning throat. I wanted to gulp it down, but mindful of the last horrendous vomiting session, I took it slow.

  “I’d like to give you some ibuprofen and see if you can keep that down. We need something to help your poor head.”

  I lay still for a moment, taking inventory. “My stomach doesn’t feel as bad as it did. I think I could handle the meds now.”

  “Great. Be right back.”

  Since he’d left the drink with me, I continue to sip it, wondering idly how one went about bottling her own ginger ale. I couldn’t begin to guess. I’d known Mrs. DiMartino as Ava’s mom for the last few years, and I’d always considered her a powerhouse woman, a virtual force of nature. She didn’t do anything by half measures. She’d raised four children and was even now bringing up her granddaughter. She worked full-time at the family restaurant, cooked for her family every Sunday and canned her own vegetables, though to be honest, I had no idea what that really involved.

  “Hi.” A small dark-haired head peeked around the corner of my bedroom door. “Are you Amanda?”

  I tried to muster up a smile, but I was afraid it probably looked more like a grimace. “Yep. And you’re Frankie. I saw you at your aunt Ava’s wedding.”

  She nodded. “Uncle Vince said to tell you he’ll be right there with the pills. He was checking on the soup.”

  “Okay.” I wasn’t sure I’d know how to interact with a kid her age on a good day, but when I was already battling just to keep from weeping from feeling so bad? I had nothing.

  “I asked my uncle if you were his girlfriend,” she announced abruptly.

  “Oh, really?” I closed my eyes. “And what did Uncle Vince have to say about that?”

  “He told me to mind my own business.”

  If I could’ve managed a laugh, I would’ve, but instead, I just huffed. “That’s one of his favorite thi
ngs to tell people.”

  “But I think you are his girlfriend, because when he was talking to you on the phone and he found out you were sick, he got really upset. Like, worried. Like how Nonna gets when I don’t feel good. And then he said we had to get here quick, and he stopped at the grocery store to get all kinds of stuff for you. So . . . I think he likes you.” She shared this last bit in a lowered voice, as though she was confiding a big secret.

  “Ah.” A warm feeling that had nothing to do with my fever flooded my chest, and once again, I wanted to cry. I knew Vincent cared about me, in his way. The more we’d gotten to know each other, the more I’d realized that his gruffness and occasional assholeryness was really a cover for a guy who didn’t like to be caught with his feelings hanging out. I’d listened to him talk about his family, and in unguarded moments, it was clear that while he loved them all fiercely, he also struggled with their expectations for him and what he saw as their inflexibility.

  But he didn’t express to me how he felt beyond some mumbled words of affection during sex or teasing me that I was an all right girl now and then. I’d noticed, though, that he held my hand now. He kissed me hello and goodbye, and it was more than just a perfunctory habit. He stroked my hair, touched me often even outside sex and called or texted frequently.

  It wasn’t like I was any different. I hadn’t blurted out to Vincent that I was pretty sure I was falling in love with him, probably because I hadn’t let myself think it yet. Now, though, worn down by rampant fever and the throbbing in my head, tears filled my eyes at the thought of Vincent’s worry for me. If his niece was telling me the truth—and why would she not?—he’d been freaked out with concern for my sick self.

  “Hey. I told you to deliver the message and scram, sport. If you end up catching whatever crud Amanda has, Nonna will have my head on a platter.” Vincent rounded the doorway, carrying a bottle of ibuprofen. “Go on back and watch the soup. I’ll be with you in a minute.”