“I’m not sure we could do anything big enough to replicate the summer crowds,” he told her. “So we’ve decided to do it the third weekend in August.”
She knew the “we” was Wade and Scott, but that didn’t bother her as much now as it would have only a few weeks earlier. Besides, it was the last part of his statement that snagged her attention. “The third weekend in August?”
“Twenty-five hours of food and drink specials,” he told her, his voice filled with enthusiasm. “Starting Friday afternoon until closing Saturday night.”
“That sounds great,” she agreed. “But I’m not going to be here that weekend.”
He scowled. “What are you talking about?”
“That’s why I came in early—to ask for that weekend off.”
“The answer is no,” he said. “You know how busy summer is—there’s no way I could manage without you for a whole weekend.”
“And you know I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important.”
“More important than O’Reilly’s twenty-fifth anniversary?”
She huffed out a breath. “I need to go to New York—”
“New York City?” He waved a hand dismissively. “You don’t want to go there in August.”
“Actually, I do,” she said. “There’s—”
“You’re my assistant manager,” he reminded her.
“You have another assistant manager now. Remember? The one who’s going to run O’Reilly’s when you retire?”
“Is that what this is about? Are you still upset—”
“No,” she interjected. “In fact, I’m glad Scott’s here because I’ve realized I like having a life beyond the walls of this pub.”
“Scott doesn’t have either your experience or your knowledge of our customer base. I need you here, Jordyn. I can’t do this without you.”
She knew she was being manipulated, that her boss would say or do anything to get what he wanted. And while she was flattered by his claim that he needed her, it wasn’t really true. Wade had enough capable employees to make it work whether or not she was around.
On the other hand, they’d been talking about this event for months. O’Reilly’s twenty-fifth anniversary was a huge milestone and she wanted to be part of it.
But she also wanted to go to New York, to meet A. K. Channing and see how her illustrations compared with those of the other finalists, and to spend a few days—and nights—with Marco.
“...three o’clock tomorrow.”
She realized Wade was still talking, having taken her acquiescence for granted.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “What’s at three o’clock tomorrow?”
“We’re meeting to finalize the menu, drink specials and entertainment. You and me and Scott.”
“You and Scott have managed to figure things out without me so far. I’m not sure what I could add.”
“Look, Jordyn, I know you’re still sore that I brought Scott on board, but what else could I do? He’s my sister’s kid, and she was worried about him in Vegas. He got into some trouble—gambling, I think she said—and she wanted a fresh start for him.”
She understood that. She’d been looking for a fresh start, too, when she’d gone into O’Reilly’s three years earlier after seeing the help-wanted sign in the window. And Wade had given her that fresh start. He didn’t remind her of that fact now, but he didn’t need to. They both knew it.
“I’ll be at the meeting tomorrow,” she promised.
* * *
Jordyn looked at the pages she’d finished only the night before and felt good about the work she’d done. She’d had more than a few doubts when she started the assignment. Old insecurities had reared up and made her question not just her abilities but her purpose.
Why was she doing this? Did she really think she was good enough to translate A. K. Channing’s story into pictures?
She hadn’t been able to shut those questions out of her mind, but she’d worked through them. She’d refused to let them undermine this opportunity. And when she was finally done, she knew that she’d nailed it. She’d created a strong cast of characters and an exquisitely detailed fantasy world. Although the villain didn’t appear on any of the pages in the scene that she’d been assigned, she’d been given some background information—enough that she could picture him vividly in her mind. So vividly, in fact, that she’d had to sketch him out.
Now she closed the cover of the folder and tucked it away.
When Marco came by later that night, she told him, “I can’t go to New York.”
“Why not?”
“Wade has scheduled O’Reilly’s twenty-fifth anniversary celebration for that weekend.”
“I don’t see why that’s any reason to change our plans.”
“He needs me here.”
He shook his head. “Even if he does, you don’t need him—or that job—enough to miss this chance.”
“I do need that job.”
It was the only one she had since she’d chosen to walk away from Garrett Furniture. She knew her family would find a position for her somewhere in the company if she decided that she wanted to go back, but she didn’t. She was no longer haunted by memories of Brian; she’d just made a different life for herself. And even if she didn’t want to serve drinks at O’Reilly’s for the rest of her life, it was what she wanted to be doing right now.
“You need to follow up on this opportunity,” Marco said. “If you don’t, you’ll always wonder ‘what if.’”
“I’m not an artist—I’m a bartender.”
“This is your shot, Jordyn. The chance to use your talent and do what you really want to do.”
He was doing it again—nurturing the seed of a long-buried dream. But she’d had too many dreams trampled already to let herself believe this one would be different. She would rather tuck the tiny blossom of hope away in a dark corner of her heart than let it reach out. Even if that caused it to slowly wither and die, that was preferable to having it crushed by the heavy heel of rejection.
“We can go to New York another time,” she told him. “Maybe in the fall, when the trees in Central Park are changing colors and the streets are a little less jammed with tourists.”
“You think I’m upset that you canceled our plans to go away,” he realized.
“Aren’t you?”
“No. I’m upset because you’re letting the opportunity of a lifetime slip through your fingers and you don’t even seem to care.”
“What opportunity?” she challenged. “The contest was probably nothing more than a publicity stunt designed to focus attention on his upcoming series. He probably already has an illustrator. The fine print gives him the right to choose another candidate if none of the entrants prove suitable.”
“You’re scared,” he realized.
“I’m only afraid of wasting my time.”
“One of five,” he reminded her.
She looked away.
“Do you ever fight for what you really want? Or are you so afraid of failing that you’d rather not try? And what about us—what’s going to happen if our relationship hits a bump? Are you going to put any effort into making it work or are you going to walk away?”
“Why are you doing this?” She felt tears burning behind her eyes, so many emotions churning inside of her. He was right—she was afraid to try and afraid to fail, and panic rose up inside her. “Why are you making this about us?”
“Because it is about us, and if you can’t see that, then maybe that’s the answer to my question.”
She didn’t know how to respond to that, what to say to make everything okay with him. So she said nothing.
After a long minute, Marco nodded. “Yeah, that’s what I figured.”
Then he turned and walked out the door.
Ch
apter Fifteen
She pushed aside all thoughts of New York City to focus on planning the twenty-five-hour event to celebrate O’Reilly’s twenty-fifth anniversary, determined to prove to herself that she’d made the right decision in choosing to stay in Charisma.
But no matter how busy she kept herself, thoughts of Marco continued to intrude. And when she thought of Marco, she couldn’t help but think about how much she missed him. But she was mad at him, too, for the unfairness of the accusations he’d thrown at her. He’d accused her of not being willing to fight for their relationship, but then he’d walked out on her.
She might have felt better if he’d slammed the door, but he hadn’t. He’d simply pulled it shut so that it closed with a quiet click—an ending, like the period at the conclusion of a sentence. And when she thought of that quiet click, when she thought that it might well and truly be over between them, she felt cold and empty inside.
And when she went to bed at night, when she crawled between the cold sheets of her empty bed, she cried for what she’d had, and what she’d lost.
She wanted to make it right, but she still didn’t believe she’d done anything wrong. It was her future, her choice, and he’d overreacted because he didn’t like the choice she’d made. She held on to that conviction and her righteous indignation for almost a week. Then she swallowed her pride and went to Valentino’s.
She stopped by early in the morning, when she knew that only the cooks would be there, getting the sauces and pastas ready for the day. The main doors were locked, of course, so she knocked on the one at the back designated for deliveries.
“Marco isn’t here,” Rafe said when he answered the door, his blunt tone leaving her in no doubt that he was aware of her falling-out with his cousin.
“I’m actually looking for your grandmother,” she told him.
Rafe studied her for a long minute before he turned and yelled back into the kitchen, “Nonna, there’s someone here to see you.”
A few minutes later, Caterina was at the door. She seemed startled to find Jordyn there, then she said something to her grandson in Italian—a hasty string of words that succeeded in sending Rafe back to the kitchen.
When he’d gone, she smiled at Jordyn, and the kindness—both unexpected and undeserved—made her throat tighten.
“Sì, cara—what can I do for you?”
“I need a favor,” Jordyn said.
* * *
Marco’s grandmother had already set up in his kitchen when Jordyn arrived with the grocery bags containing everything on the list Caterina had given her.
The older woman had bowls and utensils at the ready. A handkerchief covered her braided salt-and-pepper hair, and a chef’s apron protected her clothes. A pot on the stove was already boiling.
“I hope you don’t mind—there were potatoes in the pantry, so I decided to get started.”
“I don’t mind,” Jordyn assured her. “But I was supposed to do the work, following your instructions.”
“Do you know how to peel and boil potatoes?” Caterina asked.
“Of course.”
“Then you don’t need my instruction and we’re one step ahead.”
She could hardly argue with that logic, so she only said, “Grazie.”
The older woman smiled at her. “You’re learning.”
“Un pochino.”
“It’s the effort that counts,” Caterina declared. “In languages, in cooking and especially in relationships.”
Jordyn didn’t know what to say to that, so she turned her attention to unpacking the grocery bags. Marco’s grandmother arranged the items on the counter, setting them where they would be needed.
“What is this?” she asked.
Jordyn glanced over to see her frowning at the jar she held in her hand. “Sauce?”
“Are you asking me or telling me?”
She felt her cheeks flush. “It’s sauce for the pasta.”
Caterina turned the jar in her hand to read the list of ingredients on the label. “Not bad, but nothing is as good as homemade.”
“I didn’t think we’d have time to make homemade sauce.”
“A basic red sauce doesn’t take long,” Marco’s grandmother told her. “And you have what you need right here.” She pointed to the area where she’d grouped together the necessary ingredients—a can of whole tomatoes, fresh garlic and basil, olive oil and salt.
“That’s it?”
“Food does not need to be complicated to taste good.” She drained the potatoes—using the pot lid as a strainer—then set the pot on a hot plate on the counter and handed a masher to Jordyn.
She obediently began to mash.
After a couple of minutes, Caterina told her to add an egg and mix it in.
“Now flour.” She opened the bag.
“How much?”
“Sprinkle it over the potato and blend it together. Don’t worry about the measurements—you need to feel the dough. If it’s too sticky, you sprinkle in a little more flour. If it’s too dry, you add another egg.”
“How many potatoes do you use?”
“It depends on how much pasta you want to make.”
Her logic was infallible, but it didn’t answer Jordyn’s question.
“How many potatoes did you peel?” she prompted.
“Four or five.” Caterina put her hand into the bowl, squeezed the dough to check the consistency, nodded.
“Buona. Now—” she dusted a section of the countertop with flour “—you make a shape—un serpente—like a snake.”
She demonstrated, taking a piece of the dough and rolling it with the flat of her hand so that it formed a long, thin snakelike shape.
“Then you—tagliare in pezzi—cut it—” she sliced it into approximately one-inch pieces with a butter knife “—and finish it.”
Using the side of her thumb, she pushed down on the small piece of dough, rolling it so that it now more closely resembled the pasta Jordyn had seen on her plate.
“Tutto fatto.”
“It’s done?”
“Sì.” Caterina nodded. “Except for the cooking, but that only takes three to four minutes in boiling water.”
She’d appreciated the lesson, but she couldn’t imagine cooking like this every day. And Marco’s grandmother did—not just for her own husband but for the restaurant.
Not by herself, of course. Jordyn had discovered that there were half a dozen women who worked side by side in Valentino’s kitchen to make the various pastas every day, including Caterina’s two daughters and two daughters-in-law.
“It’s a lot of work for one meal,” Jordyn noted.
The older woman shook her head. “Preparing a good meal is not work,” she chided. “It is a labor of love.”
Jordyn agreed with the “labor” part, anyway—and then she imagined the surprise, and hopefully the pleasure, on Marco’s face when he saw the meal she’d prepared, and she was happy to have made the effort.
“And the sauce?” she asked now.
“I made it while you were rolling the gnocchi.” Caterina gestured to the skillet on the back burner. “It will be ready before your pasta and can be left to...cuocere a fuoco lento.” She looked at Jordyn, to see if she understood.
“Simmer?” she guessed, more because it seemed to fit the context than because the words Caterina uttered sounded like anything she understood.
“Sì.” The other woman nodded. “Simmer.”
“That’s it?”
“Well, you might want to clean up a little before Marco gets home.”
Jordyn glanced down at her flour-dusted clothing. The apron Caterina had given her to wear had afforded her some protection, but there was flour dust on her feet and streaks of it down her arms—not to mention
the counters and the floor.
“Thank you so much for your help,” she said.
“È un piacere trascorrere del tempo con la donna che è amato da mio nipote,” Caterina said sincerely.
“I’m sorry—I didn’t understand a word of that.”
“I said, ‘it was my pleasure.’” Then she kissed Jordyn’s cheeks—first one, then the other. “Now go—make yourself irresistible.”
* * *
Thankfully, she’d had the foresight to bring a change of clothes and a few other things in addition to the groceries. After she’d cleaned up the kitchen, she borrowed Marco’s bathroom for a quick shower.
Half an hour later, Jordyn was hovering near the stove, chewing on her thumbnail. She’d boiled the water for the pasta, then turned it off again so it didn’t boil away. The slow ticking of the clock was making her crazy. Caterina had promised to send Marco home, but he still wasn’t there. Maybe he’d decided to go out for dinner. Or maybe something had happened to him. Maybe—
The thought froze in her head when she heard his key in the lock.
He stepped into the apartment, his eyes skimming over the table already set for two, with candles lit and wine poured, before they landed on her.
“What are you doing here?”
She hadn’t expected him to immediately sweep her into his arms and kiss her breathless, but she had hoped for a slightly warmer greeting. Neither his gaze nor his tone gave away anything of what he was feeling—if he was feeling anything.
The quiet click of the door closing at his back echoed in her head. Was it an ending? Had she made a mistake in coming here? No, she didn’t—wouldn’t—believe it.
“I made you dinner,” she said.
“Why?”
It was the perfect opening, her chance to put her feelings out there, and she opened her mouth to do so. But at the last second, she balked. “Because you feed me a lot, so I thought I should return the favor.”
He moved into the kitchen, frowned when he saw the tray of pasta waiting to be cooked. “Gnocchi?”
She nodded.
“From the restaurant?”
“No. I made it.”
His brows lifted. “Where did you learn to make gnocchi?”
The Bachelor Takes a Bride (Those Engaging Garretts!) Page 17