His face seems illuminated just talking about it, and I can’t help smiling along with his memories. But then he looks down at the counter, his expression falling a little.
“My dad, though? He’s … a cards-close-to-the-chest kind of guy. He didn’t get it. I was sort of the odd kid out in our family, and I didn’t like that, so eventually I guess I started to be more like him, keeping things inside. Unless I was playing a part. Then I was … free. But even so, Dad just never liked the idea of my acting—the whole thing was too intangible for him. He was really pissed about me leaving the business. He doesn’t think acting is a real job.” Greg exhales and shakes his head with a small smile. “He might be right. But when I started getting cast more, I had an out. And now, with this Bittersweet gig… That’s another reason I really need this to work. To prove to him I can make it, you know?”
I’m still staring as he finishes speaking, seeing both the overemotional kid and the bottled-up man as I look at him. I’d never really thought of acting as a release. Is that what my mother wanted, too? I bite the inside of my cheek, and his eyes meet mine. He seems kind of embarrassed, but his gaze is unwavering, and I smile a little shyly myself. I feel like he’s revealed something to me he’s only really thought about to himself.
“I guess we all just want our folks’ approval, huh?” I say quietly. “For me it’s tough because I don’t want Joe to think I don’t believe he’s good at what he does—he’s the best. It’s just frustrating that he won’t let me prove my ideas are good too.”
Greg nods, but then I glance over at the tally for the specials and give a wry laugh.
“What?” he asks, but without the tension he had in his voice last time he said it.
“Oh just… Irony,” I reply with a grin. “I managed to sneak my new pasta dish on the menu tonight and it looks like it went down pretty well.” I show him the number of orders, and from his expression I can tell he’s trying not to say something. I raise my eyebrows at him questioningly.
“Yeah. I tried it, and it was really good, but…”
“But? But! Seriously?” I say, my eyes widening. “Come on, out with it!”
Greg’s baby blues start to do that irresistible twinkle again. “Well… Jeez, I’m just remembering how you dealt with that guy at the Canal, so I’m a little scared here.” I mock-scowl, and he continues. “But I feel like I owe it to the good Marino name to mention that my mother makes the best Pasta alla Norma in the five boroughs, and it’s a lot like your dish. Well, ingredients-wise at least. And, uh, I make the second best.”
I fold my arms. “Huh. Between your dad’s ciabatta and your mom’s pasta, those New Yorkers had better watch out,” I retort.
“You remember me saying that?” he asks with a corner of his mouth turned up, leaning over the counter again. I lean back a little.
“It wasn’t that long ago,” I mutter. That, and the fact that I’ve committed pretty much every conversation we’ve had to memory. “Anyway, hold up—I thought they said your last name was Moran?”
He shakes his head. “Marino. But my agent said it sounded too ‘ethnic’ so they changed it,” he says with a scoff in his voice. “One more thing for my dad to be pissed off about.” His mouth twists, I think with some regret.
I take a breath. “Well, Mr. Marino,” I say, setting the cash box down and gesturing toward the fridges in the kitchen. “We’ve got pasta, we’ve got eggplant, we’ve got time, and I’m hungry. Prove it.” I fold my arms again challengingly, and he grins. Slowly, he walks around the counter to head into the kitchen. As he nears me, I find my arms unfolding, reaching back behind me to clutch the counter edge as though I need to steady myself, which has the effect of pressing my chest forward. He stands in front of me, his eyes roaming down my body as it arches toward him.
“Oh, I’ll prove it,” he says in a low voice, only the hint of a smile on his lips.
I exhale shakily as he moves into the kitchen, grabbing out pots and pans and ingredients. He’s obviously become familiar enough with the kitchen over the week that he knows where most things are, and he begins to cook with easy grace. I slip up onto the kitchen counter in the middle of the room, watching him and feeling like we’re doing something forbidden. If Bobby saw me sitting up on his work surface he’d kill me. I smile, and Greg glances over at me on my perch as he slices the garlic.
“Shouldn’t you be watching what you’re doing?” I ask, but he sweeps the garlic onto his knife and throws it into the pan without looking away from me. I inhale as it sizzles and he smiles, his gaze sweeping down my legs.
“It’s kind of difficult when there are more interesting things to look at,” he says. God, he’s flirting. I don’t know if I’m strong enough to handle this. I uncross my legs, and swing them back and forth self-consciously.
“Uh, how’s your jaw?” I hope changing the subject will help. “Looks like it healed OK. Or are you wearing cover-up? That’s the kind of thing you actors do, right?”
He shakes his head, smiling again as he starts dicing onions and blanching some tomatoes. “See, I could tell you had a thing against actors. That’s why I never mentioned it before.”
“Well, can you blame me?” I look down at my hands, wondering if he remembers what I had told him about my mother. He stops stirring the ingredients he’s dropped into the pan, turns around, and takes a couple of steps over to me.
“No,” he says cautiously, reaching for the peppermill on the surface beside me. “And I guess I didn’t do much to help our rep either, huh?” I look up from under my eyelashes, pursing my lips in semi-agreement. He lifts his other hand as though he wants to brush my hair back, but then thinks better of it. He takes a deep breath and turns back to his cooking, and I twist my fingers together, fighting the urge to pull him back. “My jaw’s fine now anyway,” he says over his shoulder. “But I liked how it reminded me of feeling gallant.” I chuckle, but stop when he adds quietly, “And everything about that night, actually.”
I slip off the work surface, needing to shake off some of the tension, and I spot something lying on one of the other benches. I move closer and see that it’s a script, with the cover saying Bittersweet, Episode Two. Greg Moran. I reach down and flick it open, curious.
“That’s confidential, I’ll have you know,” he says as he notices me looking through it.
“I just don’t know, Ethan,” I read out loud through a broadening grin, ignoring him. “This just all seems so sudden… What happened over the summer was just—”
“I don’t care about what happened then,” Greg interrupts, turning to stare at me. “Now is now…” He drops his spoon, walks closer to me, and grips my shoulders. “And right now all I want to do is kiss you.”
He stares at me, and I stop breathing. So much for reducing the tension. Slowly, a smile spreads across his face, but his eyes remain dark, trained on mine. He moves one hand, and I notice he’s tapping a finger on the script still open in my hand. “Been learning my lines,” he says, releasing my other shoulder and heading back to put the pasta on to boil. I glance down and realize what he meant, as I see the words printed on the page.
“Right,” I say feebly. Even though I can only see part of his profile as his back is to me, I can tell he’s still grinning. Cruel … and sexy. Damn. If this is what us trying to be friends will be like, I’m not sure if I’m going to be able to cope.
“This’ll be ready in five,” he says, and I take the opportunity to grab some plates and cutlery. The kitchen smells phenomenal, I have to admit, and when he finally sets the dish in front of me on the counter, my mouth starts to water. He comes around and sits on the stool next to me with his own plate, but watches me first as I take a bite. I chew slowly and then swallow and wait, pretending to consider.
“It’s … umm … delicious!” I say, laughing, and he mimes wiping his brow. I take a few more bites, but then can’t help myself. “You cook for many other girls?” I ask, arching an eyebrow as he eats. He chews and swallows, b
ut before he can answer, I add, “Bethany Keeler, maybe?”
He pushes some pasta around on his plate, avoiding my accusatory gaze. It’s probably best, as I’m fairly certain jealousy isn’t my most becoming look.
“I only cook for people I think will appreciate it,” he says without looking up.
“Cryptic,” I retort sarcastically. I don’t know why I want to pick a fight now, after he’s made this ridiculously tasty meal and we’re just enjoying each other’s company. Guess it’s that darn defensiveness creeping in again. “So have you moved into the Hazelwood apartments, or are you still living the rustic life over at the Fairview?” I try to sound nonchalant, but of course I’m failing miserably.
“I moved into an apartment, yeah.” He sighs. “Cathy…” He finally looks up at me, setting his fork down. “Bethany and me, we’re not… But I know she’d like to be, and she’s used to getting what she wants, so it’s a fine line. I can’t afford to piss her off too bad.”
My eyebrow arches so high now that it practically melds with my hairline. Greg half-smiles and rolls his eyes, but then his face grows serious.
“She pulls a lot of the strings on this show, all right? But I wasn’t kidding when I said I’ve got to be careful not to get distracted right now. I’m definitely not trying to get into a relationship with her, that’s for sure.”
All I really hear are the words “with her,” because I’m a hopeless idiot, of course. I smile down at my plate, feeling prickles of embarrassment and blooms of magnetic attraction spreading across my skin. “OK. Sorry. I just… I’m envious, that’s all.” His eyes snap over to me again, surprised at that admission, and I laugh. “I’ve always wanted to live in Hazelwood, I mean.”
He shakes his head ruefully, and I take his empty plate and mine through to the kitchen to clean up. He starts to try and help, but I refuse. “It’s the least I can do after you just made the second-best Pasta alla Norma in New York or Dogwood,” I say, and he laughs that gorgeous laugh again.
I hand-wash the things we used, then reach around Greg to get a dishcloth with dripping-wet hands, as he leans on the counter next to the sink, right beside me. I know I could have walked around him, but like a junkie I just wanted to get a hit of his delicious smell again. He turns his face toward me, and I can feel his breath against my lips. I swallow, but he doesn’t move any closer. Instead, before my hand can close around the dishcloth, he takes both of my hands in his, sliding his fingers in between mine, still slippery from the soapy water. My pulse pounds around my body, especially where his fingers are squeezing mine.
“Greg…”
“Sorry.” I can tell he’s not. “I’m not supposed to be doing stuff like that, am I?” He slowly slips his fingers away and lets his hands drop to his sides, wiping the dampness off on his jeans. I finally grab the dishcloth, though I’m reluctant now to dry the sensation off my hands. I look up at the kitchen clock and realize it’s after one in the morning.
“Shit. We really ought to lock up,” I say, my voice grainy. “I just need to put the cash box in the safe.”
Greg nods and begins to wipe down the surfaces while I head out to grab the cash box from the counter, taking several deep breaths that fail to calm me down any. My sneakers squeak on the floor as I stride quickly toward the office. My heart is pounding, and the screen door that leads out to the dumpsters out back bangs in the breeze, echoing it. I had forgotten it was left open to let some of the heat out. As I go to open up the safe in the office, I look at my dad’s desk. The fact that I’m even thinking about Greg doing all sorts of nasty things to me on top of it means I seriously need to get a grip.
“You’re not going to do anything,” I tell myself in a whisper. “You’re going to lock up, go home, and leave all this well enough alone. So he can cook, so what? That doesn’t mean that—” I break off from my pep talk as I hear something behind me. Shit, is Greg coming back here? I look over my shoulder but there’s nobody there. Wishful thinking, Cathy, I tell myself. But then the noise again… I straighten up from crouching down by the safe—and whirl around just as a dark flash comes toward me and knocks me to the ground.
Chapter Seventeen
I hit the floor hard, and the wind’s knocked out of my lungs. When I can finally pull in a breath, I shout out “Hey!”, but the figure is already running out of the office and toward the back door.
“Stop!” I yell, scrabbling to my feet and running after him.
“Cathy?” I hear Greg calling from the kitchen, then his footsteps coming down the hall and breaking into a run.
“Stop, you asshole!” I shout, flinging open the screen door just as it bangs shut again after whoever knocked me down runs out the back. But the guy is fast—he’s already past the dumpsters, and I’m pretty sure he took the cash box, complete with all of tonight’s takings. I run after him, my chest burning with shock and desperation, but then I see him stumble and almost trip. A second later someone rushes past me, taking advantage of the momentary delay in the thief’s progress, and in a flying leap tackles the guy to the ground.
“Greg!” I shout in relief. “H-he took the cash!”
I rush over to where the two of them are wrestling on the ground, suddenly deathly afraid that the guy might have a knife—or even a gun. We don’t get much crime in Dogwood, but there’s always a chance. Now that I’m closer, I get a better look at the thief in the dim streetlights here on the far side of the parking lot. He’s thin, wiry, and pale, with dark clothes and a dense, dirty-looking beard. And he clearly doesn’t want to go down without a fight—he’s squirming frantically under Greg, who’s struggling to restrain him. The thief thrashes upwards, almost connecting a head-butt, but Greg shifts his weight to one side, dodging him. The guy lashes out, scratching desperately at Greg’s face.
“I’m going to call the police!” I call, glancing around and catching sight of the cash box, which has scuttled out of the thief’s reach and underneath a bush. I rush over and grab it, but when I turn back, Greg has the guy pinned to the ground in a tight hold, and the expression on his face is furious. He balls up a fist and I wince as it connects hard with the guy’s jaw, pounding his head into the asphalt. Greg doesn’t hesitate, winding up again and slamming his fist into the guy’s ribcage, his eyes pitch-dark in the shadows. He hits the guy again, and then again.
“Greg!” I shout.
He stops and turns toward me, looking slightly startled, panting hard. “I-I’ve got him—go, call the police,” he says, his voice breathless and shaky. He looks down at his fists, but the guy isn’t squirming any more, that’s for sure.
Clutching the cash box in my trembling hands, I run back into the restaurant and dial 911. They assure me they’re on their way, and I hang up and then lock the cash box in the safe, not sure how things took such a crazy turn in such a short space of time.
I rush back outside to see Greg still pinning the guy to the ground, and then I hear the sound of a siren coming up the street from a distance. The station house isn’t far, and the guys all love my dad and the restaurant, so I knew they’d be quick. A moment later, a Dogwood Police cruiser pulls into the lot, lights still flashing.
“All right, son, let him up,” says the first officer as he steps out of the car, hand resting on his gun. Greg slowly eases up off the guy. “Get up. Hands where I can see them,” the officer calls. The skinny man winces and groans but staggers to his feet unaided, hands in the air.
“Cathy, you all right?” says the second police officer as he gets out of the vehicle.
“Deputy Thompson,” I pant, still breathless from all the commotion. “Yeah, I’m fine. Guy just came out of nowhere when we were, uh, locking up…” I look over at Greg, who’s still eyeing the thief darkly, and take the few steps over to him. When I touch his arm, he looks at me with surprised eyes, and I notice he’s trembling a little. I reach down instinctively and grip his hand, and he squeezes it.
“You OK?” we both ask quietly at the same time, then smile.
I tell him I am, and he nods. He kind of doesn’t seem OK, but we have other stuff to deal with right now. I watch as the police officers cuff the guy and lead him to the back of the cruiser.
It takes a while for them to take both my statement and Greg’s, and dust the cash box and back rooms for fingerprints. After the adrenaline begins to wear off, I realize how shaken and exhausted I’m feeling. I glance over at Greg as he finishes with the police officers, and he looks pretty drained too.
“You need that looked at?” Deputy Thompson asks, nodding to a small cut above Greg’s eyebrow. He reaches up and touches it tentatively.
“Oh… No, I’ll be fine.”
“Well, good job tonight, son. Now, you both go on home and rest up. We’ll be in touch if we need anything else, and I’ll stop by and talk to your dad tomorrow, Cathy.”
They get back in the cruiser and pull away, lights flashing but no siren this time. As I stare at the lights blinking into the distance, I shake my head.
“Shit. My dad…” I mutter. “He’s going to go ape.”
Greg sighs and rolls his neck like it’s hurting him. “He’ll be OK. Let’s go inside and make sure everything’s locked up, and then I’ll walk you home.”
I nod, but then reach for his hand and pull him to a stop. “Greg… Thank you. I don’t know what I would have done if you hadn’t been here.”
He looks at me for a long time, frowning, his eyes sweeping over me like he’s imagining it. His eyes darken again for a moment, but then he shrugs and shakes his head. “Well, I’m just glad I was.”
He doesn’t let go of my hand as we walk across the lot toward the back door, and only reluctantly drops it once we step inside and I turn to lock it. In the light of the hallway I notice that the cut above Greg’s eye looks sort of nasty, and his knuckles are bruised too.
Bittersweet Page 11