Elite (Eagle Elite #1)(43)

After the food was laid out, he lit a cylinder candle and held out his hand. “Your dinner awaits.”

I jumped off the back of the car and took his hand. “Thank you.”

We sat in silence on the blanket while he poured me what I assumed was sparkling wine and put food on my plate.

I liked that he expected me to eat a lot. Maybe it was because he was Italian, or his last name said as much. Must be like our family, where not eating is a cardinal sin.

You feel sick? Eat.

You feel tired? Eat.

You feel happy? Eat.

The food looked delicious. I tried the lasagna first and moaned aloud, totally by accident, I might add.

“Shit.” Nixon dropped his fork and splattered lasagna onto the blankets. “Sorry, it’s just…” He looked away from me and gulped his wine. “Ah, slippery fork and all.”

“Right, because of the rain.” I rolled my eyes and took a bite of spaghetti. This time my moan was totally on purpose. Talk about foodgasm. Every flavor was perfect.

Nixon began choking.

“Are you okay?” I leaned over and hit his back.

He nodded and stole my wine, drinking half of it. “Yeah.” His voice was hoarse. “I just… was… choking.”

“Right.” I offered him my most disbelieving look.

Was he blushing?

Impossible.

“Who made the food?” I mentally patted myself on the back for my smooth subject change.

“I did.”

Laughing, I pushed him with my free hand while I took another bite and chewed. This time, I did not moan. I mean, I didn’t want the guy to die or anything.

“You don’t believe me?” His eyes widened a bit, then narrowed. “You think I’d lie about something as important as food?”

I put my hands up in the air in mock surrender. “Sorry, Nixon. Yes, I believe you, and if you ever get tired of running around in your little gang, you could become a world renowned chef.”

“My little gang,” he repeated. “You sound like Ma.”

“How?”

“She used to call us guys her little gang.” He pushed some food around with his fork. “Not so much anymore.”

Clearly he was uncomfortable. Another subject change already? “Did she teach you how to cook?”

“Oh yeah, my father hated it.” Nixon’s eyes softened as he leaned over and licked his lips. “I spent all my early years in the kitchen holding onto my mom’s skirts and testing all her food. She cooked a lot.”

A fuzzy memory ran through my head of a tiny little boy screaming at me in the kitchen because I got dough in his hair. I laughed. I’d forgotten all about it!

“What?” Nixon urged.

“Nothing.” I shook my head. “Or, well. It’s just, I don’t remember much from when I was little. Grandpa said everything was too traumatizing with my parents dying and all, but I remember being in a kitchen with this little boy and getting in a food fight.”

He chuckled. “What happened?”

“I think he got mad because the cook let me have a taste of the cookie dough first. Anyways, all I remember is that he threw dough at me, and I threw it back at him. We fought, and I think he tripped and hit the side of his head on the counter. I’m sure it left a scar.”

“Wow, you were a terrible child.” Nixon nodded his head. “I’m impressed.”

I hadn’t realized that he had scooted closer to me.

Slowly, I reached over and grabbed his hand.

“Do you remember anything else about your parents?” he asked softly. “Or would you rather not talk about it?”

“I don’t really know how I feel about it.” I shrugged as a breeze picked up, making me scoot closer to him. “I mean, the memories are so scattered.”

“Like a movie you can’t remember?” he asked.

“Something like that. I see pieces…”

“Tell me one…” He kissed my cheek. “If you don’t mind.”

“Alright, um… I remember things being really loud when I was little. We always had people over, lots and lots of people. I remember the dough thing… and a really pretty woman.”

Nixon’s head perked up. “I like pretty women.”

“Very funny.” I squeezed his hand. “I don’t know why I always remember her. I know it wasn’t my mom because I’ve seen pictures and remember her face a bit.”

“What did this pretty woman look like, hmm?” Nixon released my hand and began massaging my neck.

I focused on the memory, begging for it to be more clear, but all I could remember were her eyes. “She… she had really blue eyes. Like yours.”

He stopped massaging.

“And she had a really pretty laugh, it sounded like…”

“Church bells,” Nixon finished.

I jerked away. “What?”

He very sadly dropped his head. “I read minds. Why what were you going to say?”

I didn’t want to tell him that he was spot on. But only because I remember actual church bells close by. Another one of my flickering memories. I bit down on my lip. I knew it was a lucky guess.

“Dance with me.” Nixon stood and held out his hand.