The Bachelor Takes a Bride (Those Engaging Garretts!) (15 page)

He was doing it again—nurturing the seed of a long-buried dream. But she’d had too many dreams trampled already to let herself believe this one would be different. She would rather tuck the tiny blossom of hope away in a dark corner of her heart than let it reach out. Even if that caused it to slowly wither and die, that was preferable to having it crushed by the heavy heel of rejection.

“We can go to New York another time,” she told him. “Maybe in the fall, when the trees in Central Park are changing colors and the streets are a little less jammed with tourists.”

“You think I’m upset that you canceled our plans to go away,” he realized.

“Aren’t you?”

“No. I’m upset because you’re letting the opportunity of a lifetime slip through your fingers and you don’t even seem to care.”

“What opportunity?” she challenged. “The contest was probably nothing more than a publicity stunt designed to focus attention on his upcoming series. He probably already has an illustrator. The fine print gives him the right to choose another candidate if none of the entrants prove suitable.”

“You’re scared,” he realized.

“I’m only afraid of wasting my time.”

“One of five,” he reminded her.

She looked away.

“Do you ever fight for what you really want? Or are you so afraid of failing that you’d rather not try? And what about us—what’s going to happen if our relationship hits a bump? Are you going to put any effort into making it work or are you going to walk away?”

“Why are you doing this?” She felt tears burning behind her eyes, so many emotions churning inside of her. He was right—she was afraid to try and afraid to fail, and panic rose up inside her. “Why are you making this about us?”

“Because it
is
about us, and if you can’t see that, then maybe that’s the answer to my question.”

She didn’t know how to respond to that, what to say to make everything okay with him. So she said nothing.

After a long minute, Marco nodded. “Yeah, that’s what I figured.”

Then he turned and walked out the door.

Chapter Fifteen

S
he pushed aside all thoughts of New York City to focus on planning the twenty-five-hour event to celebrate O’Reilly’s twenty-fifth anniversary, determined to prove to herself that she’d made the right decision in choosing to stay in Charisma.

But no matter how busy she kept herself, thoughts of Marco continued to intrude. And when she thought of Marco, she couldn’t help but think about how much she missed him. But she was mad at him, too, for the unfairness of the accusations he’d thrown at her. He’d accused her of not being willing to fight for their relationship, but then he’d walked out on her.

She might have felt better if he’d slammed the door, but he hadn’t. He’d simply pulled it shut so that it closed with a quiet
click
—an ending, like the period at the conclusion of a sentence. And when she thought of that quiet
click
, when she thought that it might well and truly be over between them, she felt cold and empty inside.

And when she went to bed at night, when she crawled between the cold sheets of her empty bed, she cried for what she’d had, and what she’d lost.

She wanted to make it right, but she still didn’t believe she’d done anything wrong. It was
her
future,
her
choice, and
he’d
overreacted because he didn’t like the choice she’d made. She held on to that conviction and her righteous indignation for almost a week. Then she swallowed her pride and went to Valentino’s.

She stopped by early in the morning, when she knew that only the cooks would be there, getting the sauces and pastas ready for the day. The main doors were locked, of course, so she knocked on the one at the back designated for deliveries.

“Marco isn’t here,” Rafe said when he answered the door, his blunt tone leaving her in no doubt that he was aware of her falling-out with his cousin.

“I’m actually looking for your grandmother,” she told him.

Rafe studied her for a long minute before he turned and yelled back into the kitchen, “Nonna, there’s someone here to see you.”

A few minutes later, Caterina was at the door. She seemed startled to find Jordyn there, then she said something to her grandson in Italian—a hasty string of words that succeeded in sending Rafe back to the kitchen.

When he’d gone, she smiled at Jordyn, and the kindness—both unexpected and undeserved—made her throat tighten.

“
Sì, cara
—what can I do for you?”

“I need a favor,” Jordyn said.

* * *

Marco’s grandmother had already set up in his kitchen when Jordyn arrived with the grocery bags containing everything on the list Caterina had given her.

The older woman had bowls and utensils at the ready. A handkerchief covered her braided salt-and-pepper hair, and a chef’s apron protected her clothes. A pot on the stove was already boiling.

“I hope you don’t mind—there were potatoes in the pantry, so I decided to get started.”

“I don’t mind,” Jordyn assured her. “But I was supposed to do the work, following your instructions.”

“Do you know how to peel and boil potatoes?” Caterina asked.

“Of course.”

“Then you don’t need my instruction and we’re one step ahead.”

She could hardly argue with that logic, so she only said,
“Grazie.”

The older woman smiled at her. “You’re learning.”

“Un pochino.”

“It’s the effort that counts,” Caterina declared. “In languages, in cooking and especially in relationships.”

Jordyn didn’t know what to say to that, so she turned her attention to unpacking the grocery bags. Marco’s grandmother arranged the items on the counter, setting them where they would be needed.

“What is this?” she asked.

Jordyn glanced over to see her frowning at the jar she held in her hand. “Sauce?”

“Are you asking me or telling me?”

She felt her cheeks flush. “It’s sauce for the pasta.”

Caterina turned the jar in her hand to read the list of ingredients on the label. “Not bad, but nothing is as good as homemade.”

“I didn’t think we’d have time to make homemade sauce.”

“A basic red sauce doesn’t take long,” Marco’s grandmother told her. “And you have what you need right here.” She pointed to the area where she’d grouped together the necessary ingredients—a can of whole tomatoes, fresh garlic and basil, olive oil and salt.

“That’s it?”

“Food does not need to be complicated to taste good.” She drained the potatoes—using the pot lid as a strainer—then set the pot on a hot plate on the counter and handed a masher to Jordyn.

She obediently began to mash.

After a couple of minutes, Caterina told her to add an egg and mix it in.

“Now flour.” She opened the bag.

“How much?”

“Sprinkle it over the potato and blend it together. Don’t worry about the measurements—you need to
feel
the dough. If it’s too sticky, you sprinkle in a little more flour. If it’s too dry, you add another egg.”

“How many potatoes do you use?”

“It depends on how much pasta you want to make.”

Her logic was infallible, but it didn’t answer Jordyn’s question.

“How many potatoes did you peel?” she prompted.

“Four or five.” Caterina put her hand into the bowl, squeezed the dough to check the consistency, nodded.

“
Buona
. Now—” she dusted a section of the countertop with flour “—you make a shape—
un serpente
—like a snake.”

She demonstrated, taking a piece of the dough and rolling it with the flat of her hand so that it formed a long, thin snakelike shape.

“Then you—
tagliare in pezzi
—cut it—” she sliced it into approximately one-inch pieces with a butter knife “—and finish it.”

Using the side of her thumb, she pushed down on the small piece of dough, rolling it so that it now more closely resembled the pasta Jordyn had seen on her plate.

“Tutto fatto.”

“It’s done?”

“Sì.”
Caterina nodded. “Except for the cooking, but that only takes three to four minutes in boiling water.”

She’d appreciated the lesson, but she couldn’t imagine cooking like this every day. And Marco’s grandmother did—not just for her own husband but for the restaurant.

Not by herself, of course. Jordyn had discovered that there were half a dozen women who worked side by side in Valentino’s kitchen to make the various pastas every day, including Caterina’s two daughters and two daughters-in-law.

“It’s a lot of work for one meal,” Jordyn noted.

The older woman shook her head. “Preparing a good meal is not work,” she chided. “It is a labor of love.”

Jordyn agreed with the “labor” part, anyway—and then she imagined the surprise, and hopefully the pleasure, on Marco’s face when he saw the meal she’d prepared, and she was happy to have made the effort.

“And the sauce?” she asked now.

“I made it while you were rolling the gnocchi.” Caterina gestured to the skillet on the back burner. “It will be ready before your pasta and can be left to...
cuocere a fuoco lento
.” She looked at Jordyn, to see if she understood.

“Simmer?” she guessed, more because it seemed to fit the context than because the words Caterina uttered sounded like anything she understood.

“Sì.”
The other woman nodded. “Simmer.”

“That’s it?”

“Well, you might want to clean up a little before Marco gets home.”

Jordyn glanced down at her flour-dusted clothing. The apron Caterina had given her to wear had afforded her some protection, but there was flour dust on her feet and streaks of it down her arms—not to mention the counters and the floor.

“Thank you so much for your help,” she said.

“È un piacere trascorrere del tempo con la donna che è amato da mio nipote,”
Caterina said sincerely.

“I’m sorry—I didn’t understand a word of that.”

“I said, ‘it was my pleasure.’” Then she kissed Jordyn’s cheeks—first one, then the other. “Now go—make yourself irresistible.”

* * *

Thankfully, she’d had the foresight to bring a change of clothes and a few other things in addition to the groceries. After she’d cleaned up the kitchen, she borrowed Marco’s bathroom for a quick shower.

Half an hour later, Jordyn was hovering near the stove, chewing on her thumbnail. She’d boiled the water for the pasta, then turned it off again so it didn’t boil away. The slow ticking of the clock was making her crazy. Caterina had promised to send Marco home, but he still wasn’t there. Maybe he’d decided to go out for dinner. Or maybe something had happened to him. Maybe—

The thought froze in her head when she heard his key in the lock.

He stepped into the apartment, his eyes skimming over the table already set for two, with candles lit and wine poured, before they landed on her.

“What are you doing here?”

She hadn’t expected him to immediately sweep her into his arms and kiss her breathless, but she had hoped for a slightly warmer greeting. Neither his gaze nor his tone gave away anything of what he was feeling—if he was feeling anything.

The quiet
click
of the door closing at his back echoed in her head. Was it an ending? Had she made a mistake in coming here? No, she didn’t—wouldn’t—believe it.

“I made you dinner,” she said.

“Why?”

It was the perfect opening, her chance to put her feelings out there, and she opened her mouth to do so. But at the last second, she balked. “Because you feed me a lot, so I thought I should return the favor.”

He moved into the kitchen, frowned when he saw the tray of pasta waiting to be cooked. “Gnocchi?”

She nodded.

“From the restaurant?”

“No. I made it.”

His brows lifted. “Where did you learn to make gnocchi?”

“Your grandmother taught me.”

“Nonna—
my
nonna—taught you to make gnocchi?”

She nodded.

“Why?”

“Because I asked.”

“Why?” he said again.

“Because it’s your favorite. And—” she drew in a breath “—I wanted to show you that our relationship is worth fighting for.”

* * *

And that simply, that easily, the anger and frustration he’d tried to hold on to melted away.

He understood what a big step this was for her. Not just big—monumental. It couldn’t have been easy for her to swallow her pride and ask for help—to go to his grandmother and enlist her assistance with this plan.

The fact that she’d done so showed him more clearly than any words the depth of her feelings for him, and the pressure that had been weighing on his chest for the past six days finally eased.

“Are you going to say anything?” she finally asked.

“Sorry, I was just thinking about how hungry I am.”

Some of the stiffness eased from her shoulders, and the corners of her mouth tipped up, just a fraction. “Dinner can be ready in five minutes.”

“Give me ten,” he said. “I need a quick shower.”

Ten minutes later, he was sitting at the table with a plate of steaming pasta in front of him. He picked up his fork, eager to dig in. Across from him, Jordyn did the same, but she continued to watch him, waiting for him to sample and assess the meal she’d made.

She’d obviously gone to a lot of effort and was anxious about the result. He didn’t blame her for her apprehension. He knew gnocchi could be tricky, and though it looked like his grandmother’s pasta, it might be gummy or heavy or tough. But even if it was, he knew that he would eat every bite.

He pierced a piece of gnocchi with the tines of his fork and lifted it to his mouth. He chewed slowly, considering. The flavors—both pasta and sauce—were familiar and delicious. Not exactly like Nonna’s, but impressive nonetheless.

He scooped up more pasta. “This is really good.”

She finally sampled the food on her own plate, nodded. “I didn’t think your grandmother would let me screw it up too badly.”

“She might have,” he said. “If she didn’t already love you because I do.”

She opened her mouth as if she wanted to say something, but he spoke again before she could.

“I didn’t tell you that for any reason other than that I want you to get used to hearing me say it. Because I do love you, Jordyn.”

She looked at him with fear and regret in her deep green eyes. A week earlier, that look would have slayed him because he would have believed that she regretted not feeling the same way. Now he knew the truth. She did love him—she was just afraid to put those feelings into words and risk having her heart broken again.

He shifted his attention back to his plate, surprised to realize it was empty.

“Do you want some more?” she asked.

He shook his head. “No, I’m good, thanks.”

She stood up to clear their plates away. “Did you save room for dessert?”

“What’s for dessert?”

She took the bowl out of the fridge. “Fresh whipped cream.”

“On?”

She smiled. “Whatever you want.”

He slid his arms around her waist and drew her close. “I definitely have room for dessert.”

* * *

O’Reilly’s twenty-fifth anniversary was a big hit with their usual patrons, and the advertising blitz had brought in an impressive number and assortment of new customers.

The regular menu was temporarily suspended as the kitchen staff was kept busy preparing trays of hot and cold hors d’oeuvres that the servers circulated through the crowd. And it was a huge crowd. In fact, Jordyn was relieved to see several members of the Brew Crew in attendance because she trusted they would ensure the crowd didn’t exceed the capacity of fire regulations.

“This place is crazy tonight,” Carl grumbled, not at all pleased to find that his usual stool at the bar was occupied by another customer.

“It’s a party,” Jordyn reminded him, pouring a pint of his favorite draft beer.

“Who’s the guy behind the bar?”

“Phil—he usually works days but Wade brought him in to help out tonight.”

Scott was supposed to be helping out behind the bar, too, but Jordyn hadn’t seen him in quite a while. Wade, making the rounds through the crowd, didn’t seem to realize that she was both overwhelmed and understaffed behind the counter.