“Mmmpf,” he mutters around a mouthful, rolling his eyes heavenward and chewing lustily. “God almighty. Mrs. Caruso, this is the best bloody food I’ve had in my entire life.”
“Looks like the only food you’ve had in your entire life. And thank Reyna, she’s the cook.”
He stops eating long enough to glance at me in surprise. “You made the meal?”
As if he wasn’t sitting right in that damn spot watching me the entire time.
“From scratch,” Mamma supplies when I only sit there glaring daggers at him. “The pasta, the Bolognese, and the focaccia. And that Caesar dressing on your salad is homemade, too. Reyna does all the cooking for the family. Once my husband died, I hung up my apron for good.”
Quinn grunts.
Somehow, it encapsulates his disbelief that I’m able to put together an edible meal along with an acknowledgment of my father’s passing. Though I shouldn’t be surprised, considering most of his vocabulary is probably composed of such nonverbal expressions.
Barnyard animals aren’t known for their witty discourse.
I take another swig of the pinot from my glass. My plate of food remains untouched. My stomach is unsettled and my armpits are damp, and I can’t wait for him to finish his supper so I can smash his plate with a hammer and dump it into the trash, ensuring no civilized person can ever eat from it again.
That fork he’s using will have to go, too.
There isn’t enough bleach in all the world to clean his germs off it.
Tearing into a piece of focaccia bread with his teeth, Quinn says, “Does Lili cook?”
Mamma glances at me, waiting to hear how I’ll handle the question.
I go with a neutral-sounding “Yes.”
“This well?”
I hesitate, not wanting to admit that Lili has been banned from the kitchen for starting not one but two fires, one in the microwave and one on the stove.
“She’s learning. I’m sure in time she’ll master it. If you recall, she’s only a teenager.”
I say the last part acidly. I’m gratified to see it gives Quinn pause.
He looks at me steadily for a moment, a lump of bread bulging in his cheek, then chews and swallows, wiping his mouth with his napkin.
He sits back in his chair, takes a swallow of wine, then says somberly, “Aye.”
Then he exhales heavily, as if he’s troubled by her age.
Mamma shoots me another wordless glance, her eyebrows raised.
Before I can pounce on the opportunity to shame him for wanting to marry a child, he says to me suddenly, “How old are you?”
Mamma cackles. “Ah, gallo sciocco, you have a death wish, sí?”
Setting my wineglass down carefully on the table—so I don’t break it—I hold his penetrating gaze and say, “What charming manners you have, Mr. Quinn.”
“Nearly as charming as yours, Ms. Caruso.”
“I’m not the one asking impolite questions.”
“Why is it impolite to want to know my future aunt’s age?”
“Aunt-in-law,” I correct, wanting to wash my mouth out with soap just hearing it. “And it’s always impolite to ask a woman’s age.”
“As impolite as it is to shower a new relative with such…” He regards my withering gaze and my stiff posture. “Warmth and hospitality?”
Mamma says, “Don’t take it personally, Homer. She doesn’t like anyone.”
“I like some people just fine!”
She looks at me. “Tch. Name two.”
The Irishman grins, leaning over his plate and setting his elbows on the table. He props his chin in his hands and says, “Thirty-eight.”
My inhaled breath is sharp and loud. “I am not thirty-eight years old.”
He pauses to take a leisurely, half-lidded inventory of my face and chest. “Thirty-six?”
I say flatly, “That butter knife can also be used as a carving tool.”
“Five? Four?”
“I think it’s time we called it an evening, Mr. Quinn.” I shove my chair out from under me and stand.
He lounges back in his chair and smiles, folding his hands over his stomach and stretching out his legs, the very picture of the lord of the manor at ease.
“But we haven’t had dessert yet.”
Mamma—the traitor—seems to find the entire exchange highly amusing. In fact, she seems to find Mr. Quinn himself highly amusing, something that outrages me.
She’s the one who said the Irish are despicable!
I grit out, “We don’t have any dessert.”
“Except for that panna cotta you made this morning,” says Mamma. “There’s some tiramisu left, too.”
Quinn’s smile blossoms into a huge grin. He flashes all those nice white teeth at me, not knowing or caring that he’s in mortal danger.
I glare at my mother. “How kind of you to remember, Mamma. Isn’t it time for you to go to bed?”
She looks out the kitchen window, then back at me. As it’s only six thirty and the middle of August, it’s still light outside. But since she’s chosen the wrong side of this fight, she needs to leave.
She stands. Quinn stands, too.
“It was lovely to meet you, Mrs. Caruso,” he says.
His smile appears to be genuine. Not the shit-eating, fuck-you smile he’s always gifting me.
Mamma says, “Nice meeting you, too, gallo sciocco. Good luck.”
She hobbles out of the kitchen, chuckling to herself.
Smug, Quinn looks at me. “Took to me like a duck to water, don’t you think?”
I say flatly, “It’s the dementia.”
“No, lass, your mother’s as sharp as a tack.”
“Which is why she kept calling you a goofy rooster.”
“Admit it. She likes me.”
“She likes maggot cheese, too.”
He grimaces. “What the bloody hell is maggot cheese?”
“Look in the mirror and find out.”
He gives me a sour look, then takes his seat again and glances pointedly at the refrigerator.
“Mr. Quinn, I’m not serving you dessert. Please, go now.”
“Why would I want to leave when we’re having so much fun?”
“You’re as much fun as gangrene.”
“Ouch.”
He pretends to be serious, but I can tell he’s trying not to laugh.
I grab my plate of uneaten pasta, stride over to the sink, and dump it down the drain. I run the water and the garbage disposal at full blast, hoping the racket will deafen him.
He leans over the table, picks up my empty glass, and refills it with pinot. Over the din of the garbage disposal, he shouts, “I’ll try the panna cotta and the tiramisu. And I love mango ice cream, if you’ve got it.” He smirks. “If not, I’m sure you could whip up a batch, since you’re such a walloping good cook.”
I turn off the water and the disposal, grip the edge of the sink, close my eyes, and take a deep breath, praying for strength and for the ceiling to give way and collapse onto his head.
When I open my eyes, Quinn is staring at me with such burning heat, my heart flip-flops.
“Are you afraid to be alone with me, lass?”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
“You sure? You look a bit flustered.”