“Is she not here?” I ask, confused.
“She had to step out. She’ll be back soon. I’ll be training you today anyway, so if you wanna come on back, we can get started.”
I go to pull away from Vince, but he pulls me into him, kissing me. “I’ll pick you up when I’m done.”
He’s being silly, but I just smile, catching his hand for a squeeze, then dropping it. “Be safe.”
Once Vince leaves, my trainer introduces himself as Mark. “I take it you’re Vince’s old lady,” he says lightly.
“Oh yeah. Heavy emphasis on the old,” I say, nodding.
“So, Mia, you do a lot of baking?”
“If fish sticks count,” I tell him.
Smiling, he heads to the back and grabs a plastic-wrapped package. “All right then, we’ll start you off with assembly. I need to wrap and tie 250 cookies for a wedding—you can speed it up by helping me. These cookies are already dry, but I have a batch I’ll have to decorate tonight. I’ll show you how to flood and decorate them. I assume you’re not going to be here on your own?”
“Oh no, I am firmly an assistant. The cakes I do make come from Betty Crocker.”
“Gotcha.”
After showing me around the bakery, we get to work on the cookies. “Have you been a baker long?” I ask him, tying the cookie bag.
“A few months,” he says. “What about you? Been an old lady long?”
Cracking a smile, I shake my head. “Not at all.”
He messes up a cookie and sets it aside. “Gotta be kind of a rough gig, huh?”
“Rough? Uh, not really, not so far. The food’s good.”
Mark sets a tray aside. “Oh, yeah, I bet. What’s your favorite?”
“That’s hard. We have, like, legit family dinners every night. It’s basically like living in the 50’s, but with iPhones.” I pause to consider. “I guess… Francesca’s chicken and pesto pasta. I’ve never been able to make a batch of pesto that’s good enough to make a second time, but Francesca’s was delicious.”
Nodding like I just earned street cred, he says, “Great pick. I have a pretty good pesto recipe myself. One of these days when you’re working a long enough shift for lunch, we’ll have to have a pesto cook-off, see whose is better.”
“That may be the best idea anyone has ever had,” I state.
Time flies by as we pack up the cookies. Mark’s really easy-going and friendly, which is a nice change of pace from the intense, gun-wielding men I now live with. It’s refreshing, and by the end of my shift, I’m really pleased I took the job.
—
Adrian is pacing.
I’m coming back from the pool when I see him outside Mateo’s study, trying his best to wear a hole in the floor.
“Hey, Adrian,” I greet.
I didn’t expect to, given our bumpy start and his position within the Morelli family, but I quite like Adrian.
Glancing up, he offers a gruff nod and resumes his pacing.
“Everything okay?” I ask.
He nods again, not looking up or interrupting his pace.
I’m just about to shrug this off as him being an oddball and go to the kitchen to grab some lunch when the study door opens. Mateo is standing there, and he pushes it open for Elise to walk out. I peer in to see they were alone together. Elise flashes Adrian and me a wordless smile before she slides past us and down the hall.
Adrian stops short, standing in front of Mateo with all the eagerness of a kid on Christmas morning. “Did you talk to her?”
“I did,” Mateo replies, but he’s distracted. Instead of looking at Adrian, or having the conversation he’s obviously eager to start, Mateo’s eyes are wandering over my body.
I remember I’m in a bikini then, and promptly flush. There’s a towel wrinkled up and draped over my arm, but I can’t exactly whip it off and wrap it around myself now without being pretty obvious.
Amusement at my discomfort is written all over his face as he smiles at me. “Enjoying the amenities?”
“I was,” I say, doing my best not to look as awkward as I feel.
“I wanted to ask you how your first week at the bakery was. I have some business to attend to with Adrian first, but we’ll catch up at dinner.” His eyes rake over me one last time, then he turns and ushers Adrian into his office.
Drooping as I roll my eyes at myself, I make a note to order a cover-up before I go to the pool again.
—
“You can take out the bread.”
I grab both bread baskets and make my way for the dining room. It’s Sunday, so the table is at capacity tonight with family members I’ve met, but still don’t know. At least half the time I’m not involved with the conversation anyway, so it doesn’t matter. As Cherie told it to me, I was concerned the family would be more chauvinistic, but as it is, Sunday night dinners just seem like a nostalgic callback to old traditions. I won’t begrudge them that.