The Ex by Freida McFadden(12)

As soon as the waiter leaves, Joel’s brows knit together. “Don’t get what’s discounted. Get what you like.”

“Hmm.” Cassie takes a sip of her water. “You don’t know what the finances of a bookstore owner look like.”

“Right, but…” His fingers play with the napkin in front of him. “This dinner… it’s on me. I’m paying. So you should get whatever you want.”

She allows her eyes to meet his. “Usually I pay for half.”

“Not tonight.” He shakes his head. “I asked you out, so I’m paying. Also, I’m not the kind of jerk who would make his date pay for half the dinner.”

“But—”

“Not negotiable.” A smile touches his lips. “Don’t worry about it. I’m the hot doctor, remember? I can afford to treat you to dinner.”

She leans back against the cushion of the booth, knowing she won’t win this argument and not sure why she’s even trying. “Okay.”

“So like I said, get whatever you want. Order their best wine.”

Without meaning to, she giggles. “Conveyer belt wine?”

He laughs. “Now that is a great idea.”

She suspects if she opened up a conveyer belt wine store, she could retire early.

Cassie knows she should be scoping out the sushi, but instead, she finds herself staring across the table at Joel. God, he’s sexy. She gets that tingle again, this time through her whole body. He’s staring at her too, a smile on his lips that she suspects mirrors her own. She wonders if he’ll kiss her at the end of the night.

She hopes he does.

Actually, she wishes he would kiss her now. Who came up with that rule about a kiss at the end of a date? What a stupid rule. Because now she just has to sit here, thinking about kissing him. How can she digest her food with those thoughts circling her brain? No, the kiss should be first.

She should tell him about her brilliant idea. This seems like something he ought to know about.

“Joel!”

Cassie jerks her head up. A stocky man in baggy jeans and a T-shirt with a shaved skull is approaching their table, a big grin on his face. He doesn’t stop until he gets right up in front of them, and the guy claps Joel on the back.

“How’re you doing, Broder?” the guy says. “It’s been… shit, how long? A year? Two years?”

Joel smiles, although his jaw visibly tightens. “Hi, Rob. Good to see you.”

“You still at the hospital?” the man, Rob, asks.

“Same old, same old.” Joel shrugs. “You still working at the clinic?”

“Yeah, but I hate it. Looking for other stuff.” Rob’s eyes stray to where I’m sitting. A smile spreads across his lips. “And I bet I know who this is. It’s really great to finally meet you. I swear, sometimes I felt like Joel wouldn’t shut up about how wonderful you are. The perfect woman. I know he’s in love with you, but give it a rest, right?”

The color drains out of Joel’s face. “Rob…”

“You two must be getting married soon, huh?” Rob lets out a cackle. “Sorry, I’m probably speaking out of turn, but Joel needs to know with a girl as beautiful as you, he’s going to have to give you a ring sooner rather than later. And he’s already kept you waiting long enough, from what I’ve heard. Am I right, Francesca?”

Francesca.

Who the hell is Francesca?





Chapter 5: The Ex


When I am depressed, anxious, angry, or even happy, I cook. It is my favorite thing to do.

My grandmother, Angela Mascolo, known to me my whole life only as Nonna, taught me everything I know about cooking. She was born in Sicily, and her Italian mother taught her the buttermilk secret to perfect Italian meatballs when her head wasn’t even high enough to reach the counter. Nonna tried to instill her love of cooking in her daughter—my mother—but Mom wasn’t interested in such things. I was always closer to Nonna than I ever was to my parents, and when Joel left me, I spent ages in her kitchen, cooking up a storm.

The horrible day I’ve had—starting with looking at awful apartments and ending with a call to the police to report my wallet stolen—warrants lasagna. I’m putting together a meat sauce from Italian sausage. Sausage makes a much better lasagna sauce than ground beef. And Nonna gets fresh mozzarella at this tiny Italian grocery store where they give her food dirt-cheap. I wouldn’t make lasagna with anything but fresh mozzarella.

Of course, I won’t be making lasagna at all if I take that micro-studio. Except for the kind in a plastic bowl you heat up in the microwave. Nonna’s kitchen may be small, but it’s got a decent oven and a full-sized refrigerator that doesn’t electrocute me when I touch it.

Nonna walks into the kitchen to observe my cooking. When I was very young, Nonna had dark hair like I do, only slightly peppered with gray, but she’s since turned completely gray, although her hair is still long and wound into a loose bun behind her head. She keeps a pair of glasses with lenses the size of my fist perched on her nose at all times—I wouldn’t recognize her without them. She’s nearly ninety now, but there’s nothing frail about my grandmother. She proudly walks two miles a day around the city when it isn’t too icy, and her powerful arms are as big as… well, not tree trunks, but certainly paper towel rolls.