Love Arranged (Lakefront Billionaires, #3)(42)

Lily grabs both. “Better not let your other ones hear that.”

“They’ll understand once they see this man cook.”

Lily waits until Maria takes off before teasing, “Sounds like I’m in the presence of a professional.”

“Hardly.” I’d rather downplay my skills than be praised for them.

“How’d you get into cooking?” She speaks low so no one hears us.

“My parents.” Hopefully my short answer wards her away from asking more questions about it.

Cooking is more about control than enjoying the art. My first and last therapist told me as much, along with how control was one of the reasons I most likely developed OCD.

Sometimes when a child is ripped away from their life like I had been, they feel the need to establish control over every aspect of their environment.

Which is why tonight is that much more difficult for me. In my own kitchen, I know exactly where and when the food was bought. I can double- and triple-check expiration dates without anyone noticing the compulsion, and I’m able to wash my fruits and veggies until it feels just right without anyone judging me.

It isn’t healthy. My brief stint in therapy taught me that, but my compulsive behaviors can be difficult to stop, and me staying in my comfort zone where I have full control over everything doesn’t help. So instead of learning how to better manage them, I’ve built quite a repertoire of recipes since I rarely order takeout or eat at restaurants.

Lily slips her plastic apron over her head, making her dark hair stand up in all different directions. Before I think twice about it, I reach behind her head and fix her hair so it’s no longer catching on the plastic.

She blinks up at me, her eyes slightly wider than before.

“What?” I ask.

She rips her gaze away. “Nothing.”

We both know she’s lying, but I don’t push, instead holding out the permanent marker so she can write my name across the front of the apron. When it’s my turn to do the same, I’m questioning if I can make it through the four letters of her name without making a fool of myself.

In the middle of writing the letter y, her body goes rigid.

“What?” I look around for what threatened her happiness and easily locate the source.

Cazzo.

Richard, Trevor Ludlow’s younger, less charismatic brother, walks into the room with a blonde woman on his arm. She hangs on to him and bats her lashes at everyone in the vicinity.

He immediately zones in on us.

“Ignore him.” I step in front of her, blocking his view of Lily as Maria starts talking about the history of pasta and the basic instructions of tonight’s class before assigning us to our tables.

Lily and I are sent to one in a corner nearest the window. It gives us privacy from the other couples while simultaneously allowing people walking by the class to see us.

The location is perfect…right up until Richard and his date get set up at a station parallel to ours. I can feel his attention focused on us, and I don’t like it one bit, but I do my best to forget about him.

My issues are with his brother, not him, although I’m starting to have a problem with the youngest Ludlow, who keeps glancing over at Lily.

I check our ingredients for tonight’s dinner and dessert before Lily and I start working on our dough.

“How often do you make fresh pasta?” she asks as I crack an egg over my well of flour.

“Never.”

She lets out a fake gasp of outrage. “I thought you were Italian.”

I grab a pinch of flour and flick it at her face.

With a giggle, she wipes her flour-speckled cheek. She ends up missing a spot, so I brush it away. A camera flash startles us both, and we look over to see Maria winking. She checks the photo before scurrying away with a promise to send me a copy.

Lily eyes me rolling the dough into a ball while her flour-egg combo remains untouched. “When’s the last time you did this?”

I need a second to think of a response. “Sometime after I moved to Vegas. One of the nannies wanted me to”—stop crying—“feel comfortable.”

Although all it did was make me miss home.

Her eyes soften, and I wonder if she can read between the lines of my answer.

“Did your parents teach you?” she asks, her gentle voice soothing the scratchiness in my throat at the mention of them.

I look at my ball of dough. “Yes, and once I learned, I helped them make pasta every Friday afterward.”

She gives my bicep a squeeze, leaving a dusty handprint on my skin. “Sounds like a tradition I can get behind.”

“Don’t get me started on traditions,” I tease, surprised by my own lightheartedness. Usually I avoid talking about my parents, but with Lily, I don’t even notice, most likely because the typical heaviness I feel whenever I think about them is dormant.

Which is probably why I tell her about their yearly sauce-day tradition.

“As a little kid, I hated every second of it,” I say after explaining the concept, my throat thick with emotion. If I could go back, I would’ve spent my time enjoying my parents’ company rather than complaining.

I close my eyes and picture my mom and dad working outside, their backs hunched as they took turns stirring the pot full of tomatoes. Back then, life was simple, and I didn’t have the same contamination worries or concerns about food prep.