Authors: Sophia Knightly
“Tiffany! How could you?” Michaela asked, feeling betrayed and hurt.
Tiffany’s eyes widened. “What do you mean?”
“You were laughing at my picture. I can’t believe you would do that!”
“I wasn’t!” Tiffany protested, looking shocked. “I was just boasting to Paolo about all your accomplishments. He didn’t believe me when I told him that you were class valedictorian, president of National Honor Society, debate team leader, Key Club president, etc., etc. I had to prove it to him. Here it is in black and white, Paolo. Read for yourself.”
“Wow, Maki, you are a smarty-pants!” Paolo said, giving her an admiring glance.
“Yep, she inherited the brains in the family,” Tiffany said proudly.
“Your little sister admitted that she can’t even balance a checkbook.” Paolo shook his head and chuckled. “That’s why we were laughing.”
Michaela plucked the open volume from her sister’s lap. She stared at her unsmiling senior picture that showed her with an unflattering bowl haircut that emphasized her puffy face. Her thick, straight bangs were so long they covered her eyebrows, giving her a gloomy look. For a long, aching moment, she stared at the somber face, wishing she could turn back time and bring a smile to it.
Her senior year had been fraught with pressure and unhappiness as her parents had tried to steer her to Yale instead of to The Culinary Institute of America. But not all was lost, she reminded herself staunchly. She had persevered and gotten an excellent liberal arts education at Yale. When she graduated, she attended Duke law school, but dropped out in her third year and headed straight for the CIA in New York and then to Paris, where she studied at Le Cordon Bleu. Her parents had never forgiven her.
“Yikes, smells like something’s burning!” Tiffany suddenly cried out, darting up from the sofa.
Chapter Six
“Oh, no!” Michaela saw the flames flickering inside the cast iron skillet the second she ran into the kitchen.
Tiffany gave a high-pitched squeal and dashed toward the sink where she grabbed the faucet hose, struggling to pull it out. She wildly sprayed water from afar, not only dousing the flaming pan, but Michaela as well.
“Not me, the pans!” Michaela cried, when the stream of water drenched her face. Frustration welled up inside her as she surveyed the charred zucchini strips and withered mushrooms stuck to the cast iron skillet. The once meaty grouper filets looked like shriveled sardines. “What a disaster! Everything’s ruined,” she moaned.
Michaela’s hair was dripping from Tiffany’s careless play with the water hose. Paolo’s lips were twitching and so were Tiffany’s as they struggled not to laugh. Michaela couldn’t help but join in their mirth, but she then she sobered. No chef worth her salt left a meal unattended and let it burn. She felt drained and mortified as she grabbed a dishtowel off the hook and blotted her face dry.
“I’ll help you clean up,” Tiffany said in a soothing voice. “Why don’t we order pizza?”
“I’m not hungry anymore,” Michaela said quietly. “Maybe you guys should leave.”
Paolo took the dishtowel from Michaela and carried the charred pan to the sink. He tucked the towel in around his waist, turned on the faucet, and made short work of emptying the burnt remains into the garbage disposal.
“What are you doing?” Michaela was at his side in an instant.
“You’re tired and upset and this is partly our fault.” Looking concerned, Paolo smiled at her before turning back to his work. “You’ve had a long day. Go relax in the living room and I’ll clean up for you.”
“It’s okay. You don’t have to clean up my mistakes,” she said, taking the towel from his waist.
“I insist,” Paolo countered, his voice deepening with firmness as he tried to take the towel from her hands, but she held on and a tug of war ensued. “Let go and do as I say,
nena
. You’re being stubborn.”
“It’s my kitchen.” She knew she sounded grouchy, but she needed to be alone in her kitchen, to compose her tattered emotions.
Paolo gave her an uncompromising look and then turned to the sink and resumed washing the dishes.
As if on cue, Tiffany scrambled toward the living room and picked up her Tory Burch handbag. “C’mon, Mic, walk me out.”
Michaela followed her to the door and Tiffany gave her hand a quick squeeze. “We were not poking fun at your picture. I swear I would never do that!”
“I know,” Michaela said. “But you shouldn’t have brought out my yearbook. You, of all people, know I don’t treasure those memories.”
“Oh, stop it. You’re the only one with the fat complex. Look at you! You’re a knockout, you fool,” Tiffany chided.
Michaela sighed deeply. How could she stay mad at her sister after that? “Thanks, I guess I’m just tired.”
“I understand, sweetie. But before I go there’s something I have to tell you.” She paused. “I’m sorry to bring it up now. I know it’s a bad time—”
“What is it?” Michaela felt a frisson of alarm at the look on Tiffany’s face.
“It’s not good…” Tiffany trailed off with a doleful shake of her head.
Michaela hoped this was just Tiffany’s penchant for drama and nothing truly dire. “Then why do you have to tell me now?”
“Dad insisted that I personally deliver a message to you, which is part of the reason I stopped by.”
“Okay, spill,” Michaela said, anxious to get her going.
“He’s coming to the pilot show and he said he expects you to win. I think he might show up with his latest girlfriend,” Tiffany confided.
Michaela’s heart sank. “That was Dad’s uplifting message? Oh well, don’t worry about it.” His parenting style was a lethal combination of high pressure and towering expectations. Although she wasn’t a teen anymore, it still hurt her.
Tiffany fidgeted. “There’s more. Mom’s planning on being there too.”
“I figured she would.” Sylvia Willoughby was very competitive by nature and would be determined to see Michaela win.
“Don’t kill the messenger, but she’s bringing Aunt Magda.”
“Aunt Magda too?”
Tiffany nodded sympathetically.
Michaela loved her aunt, but the woman was a hopeless romantic. An English Lit professor at the University of Miami, Aunt Magda thought everything could be resolved like a Jane Austen novel. She had vowed that neither of her nieces, particularly Michaela as she was the oldest, would suffer the same fate as she. After Michaela’s break-up with Jeff, Aunt Magda had appointed herself matchmaker. She doled out prospective matrimonial candidates with the same fervor and consistency as a breeding rabbit.
“I hope she’s not bringing a new one…is she?” Michaela asked.
Tiffany squirmed. “’Fraid so. He’ll be at the show too.”
“Please call her as soon as you leave and tell her the comp tickets are only for family.”
“Okay and I’ll tell Dad not to bring a date.”
“Good. When I told Mom I could get comp tickets, I never imagined everybody would want to come.”
“Of course! We’re family,” Tiffany said, nearing the front door. “You’re gonna look amazing on camera. You can wear the sexy red dress and I’ll do your makeup,” she offered. “I’ll give you smoky eyes and some coral-pink blush and lots of lip gloss to highlight your lips. I can just picture how pretty you’ll look.”
“Thanks. We’ll talk about it later.”
“You’re a spectacular chef,” Tiffany said loyally. “The only thing Paolo has going for him is his good looks. He is smokin’ hot!”
From behind them, Michaela heard a loud “ahem”. She and Tiffany whirled around to find Paolo watching from the kitchen doorway.
“Oops, sorry you heard what I said about you,” Tiffany said with a guilty giggle.
“Bye, Tiff.” Michaela gave her sister a quick hug. “Thanks for your support.”
Tiffany responded with a thumbs-up gesture. “Anytime.” She grinned at Paolo. “Bye, Paolo, it was fun meeting you. I’ll see you at the taping?”
“Sure thing.” Paolo smiled back. “Tiffany.”
Ciao
,
Michaela opened the front door. “We’ll chat tomorrow. Please don’t forget to call Aunt Magda, so she doesn’t bring anyone.”
“As if you’d let me forget!” Tiffany said, scurrying out the door.
When Tiffany left, Paolo’s dark eyes scrutinized Michaela. “Are you still mad?”
“No. I know I overreacted, but when I saw you laughing at my senior year picture, it hit a raw nerve.”
“I wasn’t mocking you. Who cares about an old picture anyway? You should see mine someday. I laugh every time I look at myself—even my mother used to call me raviolini, I was so stuffed. You, on the contrary, were only a little overweight.”
There was nothing stuffed about Paolo’s muscular physique now.
“It took a lot of willpower to get where I am. You have no idea,” she said.
“You look perfect the way you are.” His dark eyes twinkled. “
Querida
, there’s no need to starve yourself with rabbit food.”
“I’m not in the mood for teasing.” He would never know the painful memories she kept locked in her heart. “Raviolini” was mild compared to being called “Miss Piggy” by her unrequited crush, Todd, a boy who had been her chief competition for valedictorian. When her best friend Kimmie had told her about Todd’s name-calling behind her back, Michaela had been devastated, especially since she’d been blinded by his looks and hadn’t realized how mean and shallow he was.
The grooves beside Paolo’s mouth deepened into maddening dimples. “Tell me something. Why does your Aunt Magda want to marry you off?”
“That is none of your business. I need to clean up the mess in the kitchen.”
“No, you don’t. I already took care of that.”
“You did? Thanks. I guess we should call it a night. Don’t forget—we meet at Sublime tomorrow evening—six o’clock sharp. We can’t afford to waste any more time. Please don’t be late.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Paolo saluted. “Good night, Maki
.
Hope you feel better tomorrow.”
He leaned forward and when Michaela abruptly turned to face him, her mouth caught a kiss intended for her cheek. Paolo’s warm, firm lips lingered ever so slightly before pulling away, making her breath catch in her throat as a ripple of pleasure washed over her. She took a shaky step backward and nearly lost her footing. His strong hands caught her waist and gave her a little squeeze before releasing her.
They locked eyes and Paolo’s magnetic, dark-eyed gaze drew her into his spell. She would have willingly sunk into his arms if he’d put them around her. She shivered at the sexual, demanding tension emanating from him. Did he feel it too? The intense energy radiating between them, making her dizzy with desire? It had to be that she was famished—not just for food, but for love. That explained the gamut her emotions had run tonight. First, she had felt annoyed with him, then later, upset and hurt, and now there was no denying the hot spark between them. He was driving her slowly mad, and there she was, standing before him hopelessly speechless—a rarity for her.
“Good-bye,” she managed, finally finding her voice as she stepped away from him.
She watched Paolo leave, his large shoulders hulking slightly forward. How did he really feel toward her? The accidental kiss had left her dazed, along with the smolder in his eyes and the solid squeeze of his hands on her waist.
Heeding her growling stomach, she trudged to the kitchen and grabbed the box of chocolate truffles he’d brought her. She picked up the bottle of wine and carried it into the living room. She tossed her yearbook from the couch and took a swig of wine straight from the bottle.
Michaela lifted the box cover and inhaled the hypnotic chocolate scent. She popped a truffle in her mouth and let the chocolate melt against her tongue. What the heck, she might as well finish them off. She took more sips of wine and then got a sudden attack of the giggles when she remembered Tiffany wrestling with the faucet. Keeling over on the sofa, she spilled the remaining truffles on her lap. Oops, well now that they were out of the box, she definitely had to eat them all. Michaela devoured five more luscious truffles, one by sinful one as she drank more wine.
She was starting to feel woozy as she pulled the rubber band off her ponytail and fluffed out her hair. She kicked off her flip-flops and curled up on the couch, all the while assuring herself that nothing was lost. She would make up for her ruined meal tomorrow at the spa restaurant.
Paolo had been so nice and patient tonight when she had been grouchy. Not that she hadn’t had sufficient cause…but she would have preferred if he’d gotten exasperated and left, instead of branding her with his kiss. He was like the velvety truffles—intoxicating, seductive and sinfully addictive. She had to keep him at arms’ length or she’d end up devouring him too.
She polished off the remaining wine and then hiccupped softly as she set the empty wine bottle on her coffee table. She needed to stay focused on her ultimate goal to be top chef of
Miami Spice
and not let Paolo get to her, but it was proving to be harder than she thought.
She’d have to think about that tomorrow because right now, flung on her side on the comfortable sofa, she could barely keep her eyes open.
Chapter Seven
Claudia Santos carefully stretched in bed and then kissed the palm of her hand and placed it over her pregnant belly, greeting Robert Adam Woodbridge, Jr., her unborn baby, as she did every morning. She snuggled her face against the pillow and sighed. Paolo’s bed was so comfy, she felt guilty that he’d relinquished it to her. But he wouldn’t hear of her taking the couch, where he had slept for the past two nights.
She had one more lazy stretch before turning on her side to hoist herself up from the bed when she suddenly felt a cramp in her belly. She squeezed the pillow until it subsided. The tightening sensation lasted longer than usual, but she wasn’t overly concerned. She had felt Braxton Hicks contractions before, so she didn’t think they were the real deal. It was two weeks before her due date—too early for a real contraction.
With this in mind, she carefully got up and padded on bare, swollen feet toward the kitchen. Paolo had already left for work, but not before leaving her a scribbled note tacked on the fridge:
“Ham frittata in the oven and fruit salad in the refrigerator. Buen provecho. Call me when you’re up. We need to finish our talk!”