“Okayyyy.” Frankie gave an exaggerated sigh. “Can I start the bread, though? I remember what you told me, and I want to try it. I won’t make a mess.”
Vincent paused and glanced my way. “You trust this hooligan in your kitchen, babe? She’s generally trustworthy.”
I waved my hand. “Have at it. That kitchen’s never seen any action, so it’s good that someone will be cooking in there.”
Frankie grinned. “Can I, then?”
“May I, not can I, and yes, you may. Think about what you’re doing before you do it, and I’ll be right there to check your progress.”
“Thanks!” Frankie disappeared, and I heard her footfalls as she sprinted away.
“She’s adorable.” I tracked Vincent’s progress, walking toward me. “But maybe you’re right—I don’t want her to get sick from me. Or you either. I’m in bed, I’ve got liquids and meds—you should probably go. I’ll be all right now.” Even as I said it, I could hear the wobble in my voice.
“Nah, she’s fine, and so am I. As long as she stays out of the bedroom, she’ll be safe from germs. And I don’t get sick. I’ve got an iron constitution.” He pounded on his chest. “Here, take these pain killers. They’ll help bring down your temp and make your head feel better.”
“All right.” I held out my hand and took the ibuprofen, tossing them into my mouth and swallowing with a small wince of pain.
“Now we need to talk about something much more serious than you being sick.” Vincent sat down on the edge of the mattress and studied me. Trepidation gripped me. What was he going to say?
“What’s that?” I tried to sound pathetic, so he wouldn’t bring up anything I didn’t want to discuss just now.
“What you said to Frankie about your kitchen. It’s never seen any action? Are you serious? Your kitchen rocks, baby. The counters—all that granite—they’re just the right height.”
I frowned. “For what?”
“For you to sit on while I fuck you senseless.” He murmured the words, smirking. “I can’t believe you were telling the truth. Have you never had sex in your kitchen?”
I coughed, covering the fact that I was choking on my ginger ale. “You’re incorrigible, Vincent. Here I am, practically on my death bed, and you’re talking about sex in the kitchen. And your niece is in the other room.”
“First, you’re sick, you’re not on your death bed, baby. But I have to say that even if you were, I’m into you so much that even then, I’d probably want to do you.”
The smile I’d been trying to work up before was now curling my lips. “The things you say, Vincent. You’re positively a poet.”
“That’s me. Also, Frankie is way down in the kitchen. She can’t hear me. And you’re the one who brought up action in the kitchen and cooking in there and all that. So it’s really on you.” He ruffled my hair and stood up. “Try to go back to sleep now. I’ll check on you in a little bit.”
Amanda slept for a few hours. I snuck into her bedroom every twenty minutes or so to make sure she was all right, and about two hours after I’d given her the ibuprofen, I noticed that her hair was sweaty and her face was flushed. When I touched her forehead, she felt a little cooler.
Back in the living room, I took out my phone and called my mother.
“What’s the matter, Vincent? Is it Frankie?”
This was Ma’s normal way of answering any call from her children, so it didn’t even give me pause. “Everyone’s fine, Ma. Frankie’s great. I just wanted to let you know that I’m in Philly. Both of us are.”
There was silence at the other end of the line. “Why are you in the city, Vincent?”
I took a deep breath and plunged in. “Amanda’s sick. Some kind of virus has been going around her study group or whatever, and she’s got it. Fever, vomiting, cough, sore throat, headache . . . anyway, she was here alone, and so I came over to take care of her.” And then I waited.
As much as I often blustered that my parents were predictable, the truth was that they were not. Not always. I knew that there was as much a chance that my mother would go one way as the other. She had a big heart, and her care for people extended beyond her own beloved family.
“Is she all right?” Ma’s voice was quiet. “Amanda. Is she going to be okay? Do you need me to come over there and help?”
I leaned against the wall of the kitchen and sagged a little, more relieved than I’d expected to be. “I think she’s okay. Pretty sure her fever broke just now. I gave her some of your ginger ale and some pain meds, and I’m making her chicken soup. Oh, and Frankie and I are making bread, too.”
“All right. Good.” She paused. “You’re keeping Frankie away from the germs, right?”
“Yeah, I told her to stay in the living room, and she has. Plus, I’m making her wash her hands every time she touches anything.”
“With soap?”
“Of course, with soap, Ma. I’m not an idiot.” I rolled my eyes, safe in the knowledge that my mother was sixty miles away and couldn’t smack the back of my head.
“Didn’t say you were, son. But you’re not used to having a child around all the time, either. So when are you heading back home?”
This was going to be the sticky point. “The thing is, Ma, I don’t think Amanda should be alone overnight. I called her mother, and she’s in New York. She can’t get down here to be with her.”
This time, the pause was longer. “You want to stay there alone? All night?”
“Yeah, I’m going to stay. We are.”
And now she began to fuss. “Vincent, your niece is a child. She’s young and impressionable—”
Irritation bubbled up inside me. “Don’t worry, Ma. When Amanda and I are having all the kinky sex I have planned for tonight, we’ll close the bedroom door and make Frankie wear ear plugs. She’ll never know what’s going on.”
“Vincent Joseph DiMartino—”
“Ma, I’m kidding. What do you think of me? First off, Amanda’s sick. Like, really sick. All she’s going to do is sleep, and all I’m going to do is keep my eye on her. Second, I’m not stupid. I’d never do anything to put Frankie in danger or to expose her to . . . anything that made you uncomfortable. Jesus, Ma. Give me some credit.”
“You stop taking the Lord’s name in vain, and we’ll talk about credit,” she snapped back. “And cut out the smart talk. I know you’re not stupid. It’s just that Frankie is impressionable. I don’t want her thinking it’s okay for a man and woman to sleep in the same bedroom when they’re not married.”
This was not news to me. I knew Ava had been hurt that before she and Liam got married, Ma wouldn’t let Frankie stay at their house with them, no matter how often Ava offered. I wasn’t going to win this battle today.
“I understand. And I’m telling you that Frankie hasn’t seen anything today that would upset you. She’s baked bread. She helped me make soup. And now she’s watching a movie—rated G. She and I will both sleep out in the living room, while Amanda’s in her bedroom. What more could you want?”
The sigh I heard told me that while she wasn’t exactly pleased, Ma wasn’t going to fight me anymore on this. “Fine. You do exactly as you told me, and it’s fine with me. You can’t leave the girl alone when she’s sick.”
“Thanks, Ma. I appreciate it.” I rubbed the back of my neck. “Is there anything else I should do to make Amanda feel better? She’s really sick. Her temperature was a hundred and two.”
“You’re making sure she’s drinking a lot? You’re giving her my homemade ginger ale? And you’ve got chicken soup almost ready? Then I’d say you’re doing everything you can. Sleep, liquids, pain killers . . . and time. These things have to run their course.”
“Okay. Thanks.” I felt a little bit better, having my mother validate my methods of care.
“And Vincent, don’t think we’re not going to talk about this when you get home. I knew you had a girl somewhere . . . and I won’t lie, I suspected it might be Amanda. I saw you with her a
t the wedding. Is this serious?”
My chest tightened as the trap closed around me. “Uh . . . well . . .”
“She’s a nice girl, Vincent. She’s pretty and respectful and friendly. I like her.”
I swallowed. “But?”
“What but? Who’s saying but? I said I like her.”
“Okay, Ma. Whatever. I gotta go. The soup’s almost ready.” I headed for the kitchen.
“Fine. We’ll talk about this more when you get home. You can drop Frankie off on your way—I’ll be home. Uncle Dom is doing well, not that you asked.”
Guilt. Yeah, that was what I needed now. “Sorry. Glad he’s okay. I’ll call you when we head out tomorrow.”
“You do that.” She hesitated, and when she spoke again, her tone was softer. “I love you, son. Be careful.”
“Will do. Love you, too, Ma.”
By that evening, Amanda’s head was feeling somewhat better, and her temperature had dropped to a hundred degrees. She’d kept down some chicken soup, too. I was vigilant about making her take the pain killers every four hours, and she’d drunk endless glasses of ginger ale.
“Is Frankie okay?” She lifted her head from the pillows as I entered her bedroom. “Did you find the extra sheets and pillows?”
I dropped onto the bed and stretched out next to Amanda. “Yep. I made up a bed for her on the sofa, and she’s already asleep. All the cooking and excitement knocked her out, I guess.”
“Mmmm.” She reached over to touch the side of my face. “Did you make up a bed for you, too?”
I shook my head. “No. Not yet. I was thinking maybe I should stay in here with you, in case you need me in the middle of the night.”
Amanda was quiet for a second. “I would love that, but what would your mother say? I don’t want to piss her off. When she knows about . . . us, I mean. Frankie will tell her when she gets home, and your mother might ask where Uncle Vincent spent the night. I care about what your mother thinks of me, Vincent. I don’t want to start off on the wrong foot with her. I don’t want her to think I’m a big ‘ho.”
I smiled and rolled to my side, resting my head on my hand as I studied the beautiful woman lying next to me. “Ma knows where we are. I called to let her know. She was worried about you, but she said I was doing all the right things.”
Amanda’s eyes widened. “She knows you’re staying over here?”
“She does.” I tapped her nose. “And don’t worry. I’ll be awake and up before Frankie opens her eyes in the morning. But she’s not going to care either way. We’re not in here getting down and dirty. I’m sleeping close to make sure you’re okay. And because . . .” I shrugged. “I want to sleep with you next to me. We don’t get weekends like this often enough for me to throw away the chance to have you close.”
To my astonishment, tears filled her eyes and spilled down her cheeks. “I’m sorry.” She swiped madly at the drops. “I cry when I’m sick. It’s stupid. But I do. And I really . . .” Her voice trailed off. “I’m so grateful you’re here, Vincent. I don’t know what I would’ve done if you hadn’t come to my rescue. I was kind of scared. I don’t get sick much. But when I do, it freaks me out.”
“Where else would I be?” I gathered her close to me and tucked her face into the crook of my neck, rubbing her back. “I was worried, babe. I couldn’t get here fast enough.”
She snuggled against me, and I noted that although she was still undeniably warm and slightly feverish, she was no longer radiating heat the way she had when I’d first arrived.
“But still . . .” She sighed. “Thank you for coming. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
I stilled, waiting for the inevitable wave of panic to sweep over me. Those words would usually send me running in the opposite direction of any woman who dared to speak them. But instead, I felt a sense of rightness, of knowing I was where I was meant to be, holding the woman who had somehow become essential to my life. Tangling my fingers in her hair, I pressed a kiss against her ear.
“There’s no place else I would rather be, babe. And you’re never going to have to find out what you’d do without me. I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”
“Mr. DiMartino, welcome.”
The woman greeting me stood up from behind a wide desk, smiling. I judged her to be in her early forties, and she bore a strong resemblance to her mother, who was standing next to me, her hand on my arm.
“Vincent, dear, this is our daughter, Danielle, who runs the hotel part of the business. She handles all the personnel decisions, so she’ll be interviewing you today.” Midge Romano beamed at her daughter. “I already took Vincent on a little tour of our place here, darling. He met Al and checked out the kitchen. So now he’s all ready for you!”
Danielle indicated a chair across the desk from hers. “Please, have a seat. Mom, are you staying, or do you have something else to do?”
“Oh, no, I’ve got to run. I have a manicure appointment in twenty minutes.” Midge reached up to pat my cheek. “You have a nice chat, Vincent, and I hope we’ll see again very soon.” With a wink at her daughter, she trotted through the open door that led into the hotel’s quiet lobby.
“So, Mr. DiMartino—”
“Please call me Vincent. Or Vince.” I unbuttoned my jacket and sat down in the padded wooden chair.
“All right, Vincent—can I get you coffee or water?”
I shook my head. “Thanks, I’m good. Your mother made me try an espresso while we were in the kitchen.”
“That sounds like her. I assume, given what my dad told me about your background, that you’re familiar with the advantages and pitfalls of working with your parents when you’re a part of a big Italian family?”
Laughing, I nodded. “Just a little. It has its moments, that’s for sure.”
“Exactly.” She folded her hands loosely on the desk. “Vincent, I’ll be straight with you here. We never really considered hiring a full-time pastry chef here. We’ve contracted out our needs in that area, and I always thought it worked well. But then last year, my father came home from a trip to Atlantic City and began raving about this guy who worked at his family restaurant. He loved your desserts, and he brought up the idea of hiring you.”
“And that wasn’t something you needed to hear. It complicates your life.” I knew how all that went. I remembered all too well how Carl and I usually reacted when my dad came up with a big new idea for improving the restaurant. If it wasn’t broke, why fix it?
Danielle chuckled. “Well, let’s just say I was taken aback. But the more he talked, the more interested I became. We’ve been talking for years about making our restaurant more of a destination in and of itself, aside from only catering to our hotel guests and to event clientele. My mother loves the afternoon tea we offer, but she’s wanted to expand that for a long time. If we did, hiring a dedicated pastry chef makes sense. And although I know your experience has been limited to work at your own family’s restaurant, I like what I read about you. Your work has gotten some notice.”
I shrugged. “I love what I do, and that’s why I do it. It’s not about awards or recognition. Some people cure disease, others write music . . . I create desserts. It might not be one of life’s necessities, but it sure does make living nicer.”
“Absolutely.” Danielle straightened the blotter on her desk. “So let’s not waste any more time dancing around this. I knew before you came today that unless I found you obscenely unfit for working here in one sense or another, we were going to make you an offer. That’s because Dad wants you, and although Al and I do run this place now, Dad’s decisions are still the law. Not because he says so, but because we respect him enough to make it so.”
I wasn’t sure whether I felt relief, trepidation or excitement. Maybe all three at once. “Okay.”
She slid a large white envelope across the desk to me. “This is the offer. I know what we’re proposing isn’t going to happen overnight. We understand that you have strong ties to your homet
own and to your family’s business, and we don’t want to come in the middle of family. But we’ve come up with some ideas, and they’re in here. I’d like you to take it home, look it over and then, if you have questions or concerns, give me a call and we’ll discuss them. Take your time. We don’t expect a decision tomorrow, or even next week.”
I tapped one finger on the envelope. “Thanks for understanding. I didn’t tell anyone I was coming in today. To be honest, I didn’t even tell my family about meeting your parents last year. It would have been . . .” I paused, picturing how my mother and father would have reacted to the idea of me even contemplating this move. “Well, you know. You work here. You can imagine.”
She wrinkled her nose. “I can, indeed.” She gave a mock-shudder. “I am curious about one thing, though. Is there any particular reason you called my dad last week, to set up this meeting? I only ask because . . .” This time, it was Danielle hesitating. “I would hate to think of you having a misunderstanding or a disagreement with your family and deciding to use our offer to make the break. We don’t want to be the job you’re taking to run away from something else. Does that make sense?”
“Yes, absolutely.” I sat up a little straighter and spread my fingers over my knees. “It’s not that at all. I love my family, and most of the time, I love working with them. I have my hot buttons, like anyone else. There are things I would change, for sure. But no, I’m not looking to get away. It’s more that I’ve been considering how I could make a life in the city work.” I swallowed hard. I hadn’t planned to talk about this, but it was important that Danielle understood I wasn’t using this possibility to escape a bad situation. “There’s a woman I’m seeing . . .”
“Ah.” Her eyes lit up. “And she lives here?”
“Yeah. Yes, I mean.” I gazed out the window behind Danielle. “She’s in her last semester of law school at Penn. She doesn’t know where she’s going to practice after she passes the bar, but I think she’d like to stay in the city, since she has a part-time job with a firm here already.” Amanda and I didn’t talk about that part of our future much. But I had hunches, and I’d made assumptions. Why wouldn’t she want to stay here, living in her beautiful apartment, enjoying the life she’d made? She sure as hell wouldn’t want to move to a backwater small town like where I lived and worked.
Just Roll With It (A Perfect Dish Book 4) Page 17