Read Online A Dish Best Served Cold: An Italian Kitchen Mystery (Italian Kitchen Mystery, An) by Rosie Genova - Free Book Online
Authors: Rosie Genova
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covered; it’s not safe, Victoria—plain and simple.”
While I wasn’t worried about some water in my basement, the thought of shattered windows was enough to give me pause. I let out a breath. “I really don’t want to go back to my parents’ house.”
“You don’t have to,” he said. “You can come home with me.”
“Uhhh . . . thank you, but I don’t think . . .”
“I meant as my guest,
cher
.” He smiled and kissed the top of my forehead. “As in, you’ll take the guest room.”
“Oh. Okay.”
Hmm, a little disappointed, are we, Vic?
“Sure. Just let me go pack a bag.”
Up in my bedroom, I threw some things in an overnight bag, changed from my dress to a T-shirt and jeans, and traded my wet leather flats for flip-flops. Looked around the room and figured the water would never get this high in a category-1 storm. On the way out, I glanced at my poster of Bruce Springsteen. “Well, Boss,” I said, “wish me luck.”
But for what? No hurricane damage? Or for the prospect of spending the night at Cal’s?
* * *
Cal was right about the weather on the other side of the eye. The wind shrieked in my ears, and I got soaked just darting from my front door to his truck. Nervous at the thought of shaking tree branches, I struggled with the heavy door of the truck. Cal shoved me inside and closed the door behind me.
He shook his wet hair as he slid into the driver’s seat. “‘Baby, it’s bad out there,’” he sang in a low, soft tenor, and my head jerked up at the sound. The man could carry a tune. He stopped when he caught me frowning.
“What? Don’t you like that song?”
“No, it’s not that. You can
sing
. That gives me one more thing to add to my meager collection of facts about you.”
He trained his eyes on the dark street ahead. “Ain’t that mysterious,
cher
.”
Oh yes, you are.
“What’s that?” I pointed to a grocery bag on the seat between us.
“Stuff from your fridge and freezer that might spoil. Though how you make a meal from designer ice cream and margarita mix is beyond me.”
“Those are two all-important food groups. Hope you got the container of frozen marinara sauce—it’s my one claim to fame.”
He grinned. “I got it. I’ll take it as payment for my hospitality.”
“It’s yours. Seriously, though, you thought of everything tonight.”
“Right. Learned it the hard way from a sassy gal named Katrina. Right before she run me out of town.” But he didn’t elaborate.
I noticed lights emerging along the highway in places where the power was still on. “Hey, we’re heading west,” I said. “I thought you told me you lived in Seaside?”
“Nope. Moved from that place. I’m in Riverton now, ’bout ten miles inland, which is safer than staying at your place or at your parents.”
A half hour later, we pulled into a new-looking apartment complex. Though the wind had died down a bit, it was still raining, and we made one last sprint to his front door.
“It ain’t much,” he said as he opened it, “but it’s home.”
But there was very little about the spotlessly clean and spartan apartment that said
home
. The living room held a couch, a table, and a standing lamp of good quality but nondescript style. Maybe the guy was a minimalist, but there wasn’t a photograph or a framed print on the walls, and none of the small, personal details that tell the story of a person’s life. Every room appeared to be painted white, and the same beige carpet ran throughout the apartment.
In some way,
I thought,
Cal is hiding himself in all this bareness.
“So, how about a drink to warm them bones?” Cal took off his wet jacket and rolled up his shirtsleeves, and my eyes strayed to his tanned forearms.
“I wouldn’t say no.” Still holding my bag, I followed him to the kitchen, where he motioned me to sit. I plopped down on one of the kitchen chairs with a groan. “What time is it, anyway?”
“It’s after midnight.” He set
While I wasn’t worried about some water in my basement, the thought of shattered windows was enough to give me pause. I let out a breath. “I really don’t want to go back to my parents’ house.”
“You don’t have to,” he said. “You can come home with me.”
“Uhhh . . . thank you, but I don’t think . . .”
“I meant as my guest,
cher
.” He smiled and kissed the top of my forehead. “As in, you’ll take the guest room.”
“Oh. Okay.”
Hmm, a little disappointed, are we, Vic?
“Sure. Just let me go pack a bag.”
Up in my bedroom, I threw some things in an overnight bag, changed from my dress to a T-shirt and jeans, and traded my wet leather flats for flip-flops. Looked around the room and figured the water would never get this high in a category-1 storm. On the way out, I glanced at my poster of Bruce Springsteen. “Well, Boss,” I said, “wish me luck.”
But for what? No hurricane damage? Or for the prospect of spending the night at Cal’s?
* * *
Cal was right about the weather on the other side of the eye. The wind shrieked in my ears, and I got soaked just darting from my front door to his truck. Nervous at the thought of shaking tree branches, I struggled with the heavy door of the truck. Cal shoved me inside and closed the door behind me.
He shook his wet hair as he slid into the driver’s seat. “‘Baby, it’s bad out there,’” he sang in a low, soft tenor, and my head jerked up at the sound. The man could carry a tune. He stopped when he caught me frowning.
“What? Don’t you like that song?”
“No, it’s not that. You can
sing
. That gives me one more thing to add to my meager collection of facts about you.”
He trained his eyes on the dark street ahead. “Ain’t that mysterious,
cher
.”
Oh yes, you are.
“What’s that?” I pointed to a grocery bag on the seat between us.
“Stuff from your fridge and freezer that might spoil. Though how you make a meal from designer ice cream and margarita mix is beyond me.”
“Those are two all-important food groups. Hope you got the container of frozen marinara sauce—it’s my one claim to fame.”
He grinned. “I got it. I’ll take it as payment for my hospitality.”
“It’s yours. Seriously, though, you thought of everything tonight.”
“Right. Learned it the hard way from a sassy gal named Katrina. Right before she run me out of town.” But he didn’t elaborate.
I noticed lights emerging along the highway in places where the power was still on. “Hey, we’re heading west,” I said. “I thought you told me you lived in Seaside?”
“Nope. Moved from that place. I’m in Riverton now, ’bout ten miles inland, which is safer than staying at your place or at your parents.”
A half hour later, we pulled into a new-looking apartment complex. Though the wind had died down a bit, it was still raining, and we made one last sprint to his front door.
“It ain’t much,” he said as he opened it, “but it’s home.”
But there was very little about the spotlessly clean and spartan apartment that said
home
. The living room held a couch, a table, and a standing lamp of good quality but nondescript style. Maybe the guy was a minimalist, but there wasn’t a photograph or a framed print on the walls, and none of the small, personal details that tell the story of a person’s life. Every room appeared to be painted white, and the same beige carpet ran throughout the apartment.
In some way,
I thought,
Cal is hiding himself in all this bareness.
“So, how about a drink to warm them bones?” Cal took off his wet jacket and rolled up his shirtsleeves, and my eyes strayed to his tanned forearms.
“I wouldn’t say no.” Still holding my bag, I followed him to the kitchen, where he motioned me to sit. I plopped down on one of the kitchen chairs with a groan. “What time is it, anyway?”
“It’s after midnight.” He set
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