When in Rome(15)



My mouth falls open. “You do not.”

“I do. Something wrong with that?”

So defensive, this one.

Shaking my head, I slide off the stool so I can go lean back against the countertop beside the stove. Noah doesn’t look at me, but he cuts his eyes to where my palm is planted on the surface beside me. Thinking maybe it’s in his way, I cross my arms in front of me.

“It’s great. I just didn’t expect it. Not with all your…well…you know.” I gesture toward his masculine form again because my awkward ship has sailed and there’s no pulling her back into port. “So what’s your favorite pie?”

“I don’t like pie.” He says it so definitively.

I blink at him. “But you own a pie shop.”

“Probably why I don’t like pie.”

I shake my head feeling dumbfounded. More paradox. How would he feel if I told him I don’t like singing? I love to sing, though, so that thought’s irrelevant. Or—at least, I used to love singing and I’m hopeful I will again.

“So if you don’t eat it, how do you know if it’s good or not?”

“I inherited the pie shop from my grandma. It’s been in our family for generations. I use the same foolproof recipes they used.” He glances down at me and takes in my curious frown. “Have you never loved something just for what it means to you?”

First, I’m stunned because Noah doesn’t strike me as the sentimental type. But he owns his grandma’s pie shop so clearly I’m wrong. Two, yes, I absolutely have. And her name is Audrey Hepburn. Immediately I’m transported back to that night when I was thirteen and couldn’t sleep. I had a bad dream and woke up in a cold sweat, going out to the living room to find my mom. She was a night owl (probably because as a single mom, those few hours after I’d go to bed were the only ones she had for herself), and I found her curled up on the couch watching a movie.

“Hi, sweetie pie, can’t sleep?” she’d asked, lifting the edge of her blanket so I could crawl under and snuggle with her.

“I had a bad dream,” I’d said.

She tucked me up close to her and we both turned our attention to the black-and-white movie playing on the TV. “Well, I have the perfect cure for bad dreams. Breakfast at Tiffany’s. Audrey Hepburn always makes me feel better when I’m upset.”

Together, we’d stayed up late watching that classic movie, and my mom was right. For those few hours, I didn’t feel scared or sad. It became a tradition for us to watch Audrey Hepburn movies together when either of us was having a bad day. Except now, I watch them by myself because our relationship fractured a long time ago and I don’t think it’ll ever heal.

But I can’t tell Noah any of that because it’s too personal. So I take a page from his book and simply say, “Yeah. I have.”

He accepts my answer for what it is and flips a pancake. I have a thousand questions I want to ask—but just like last night, being this close to him ties my tongue. Right now, he smells like clean laundry, masculine bodywash, and sweet, buttery pancakes. It’s the perfect scent.

The quiet stretches and I’m not eager to interrupt it. Instead, I watch the batter sizzle and bubble in the pan, wondering when the last time anyone felt comfortable enough around me to just be quiet. It’s been years.

“You don’t like pancakes?” Noah says, pulling me from my thoughts. When I give him a curious look, he adds, “You were frowning at the skillet.”

I have zero desire to tell him I was frowning at the thought of my mom, so I sidestep. “Uh…no. It’s only that I can’t eat them.”

“Gluten?”

“Carbs. I have a very strict diet I have to adhere to. Especially leading up to my tour in a few weeks. My manager will murder me if I come home with an extra inch on my waist.” I have several costumes I need to be able to fit into—and believe me, Susan will tell me if she thinks I look too lumpy in them. Or she’ll talk to the chef who makes all my meals for the week, and not so subtly adjust the menu to consist of smaller portions and nothing delicious.

“Okay,” he says, scooping the most fluffy, golden-brown pancake I’ve ever seen out of the skillet and onto a plate. He drops another dollop into the pan and it hisses. “Eggs then?”

I narrow my eyes at him. “You’re not going to try to convince me to eat the pancakes?”

This time he looks at me, confused and intrigued all at once. “No. Should I?”

“I was sort of hoping for it. Because then I could tell my manager you accused me of being rude by rejecting your hospitable offer, and she’d see I was left with no choice but to eat them or else you’d go slander me to the press.”

He raises a brow, flips a pancake. “You need your manager’s approval to eat?” I hear the challenge in his voice.

But more than that, I hear the simplicity of his question and how easy it should be to say No, ha ha, of course not. That would be ridiculous! But holy shit, I do. I think of how many times Susan’s name has crossed my mind since I left last night and I begin to wonder if she’s part of whatever problem I’m having. Have I let myself completely defer all decisions regarding my life to her?

My eyes follow the spatula as Noah lifts a golden pancake onto the beautiful stack he’s already made. It looks like a piece of art. That pancake should have its own social media account devoted to nothing other than adoring it from all angles. “So…” says Noah. “Scrambled eggs for you?”

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