Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 83358 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 417(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 278(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83358 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 417(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 278(@300wpm)
I drink in the faint scent of vanilla coming from the large lit candle on her mantel. I make a mental note—she likes vanilla.
I follow Winnie into the kitchen where a pot of red sauce simmers on the stove and a salad sits half-assembled on the counter. She opens a cabinet and pulls out a vase, taking it to the sink to arrange the flowers in it.
“Thank you so much. They’re beautiful.”
“My pleasure.” Leaning over the stove, I give it a good sniff and my mouth waters. “Smells amazing. You obviously can guess I’m a sucker for Italian food.”
She jolts and looks at me with what seems to be panic on her face. “Oh my God… you’re Italian.”
I laugh, shaking my head. “This I know.”
She slaps her forehead and grimaces. “Shit.”
I frown at Winnie. She looks completely ill with worry. “What’s wrong?”
Inhaling, she closes her eyes briefly, then lets her breath out with a sheepish smile. She opens the garbage can and points to an empty jar of RAGÚ. “I am nowhere near Italian, nor can I cook very well. But I do know how to cook some ground beef and spice up the sauce with more herbs. You’re going to be sorely disappointed, I’m afraid.”
My laugh is uncontained because I find it amusing in the sweetest way that she’s worried about serving me jarred red sauce. I give her a wink. “I’ve eaten many plates of pasta with just RAGÚ… no ground beef, no herbs. I know it will be delicious.”
I get a grateful smile and that’s when I notice… she’s not wearing any makeup. None at all. Her face is scrubbed clean and her hair is in a high ponytail.
And damn—she’s still beautiful.
Not in a dressed-up, filtered, scroll-stopping kind of way. Just… her. Smooth skin, freckles across the bridge of her nose, lips curved in an easy, unguarded grin. There’s no effort to impress or dazzle. She shows up exactly as she is, and somehow that hits harder than any smoky eye or red lipstick ever could.
She wears it like armor—not the makeup, but the lack of it. Like she knows who she is and doesn’t need to be anything else. That confidence? That quiet kind that doesn’t scream for attention but still somehow demands it?
Yeah. That’s the kind of beauty that lingers, and before now, I hadn’t realized I’m a guy who appreciates that.
In fact, I think it’s downright sexy.
“You’re staring at me,” she observes as she starts cutting into a cucumber.
“Can’t help it. You’re beautiful,” I reply without thought and enjoy the blush that hits her cheeks.
“No, I’m not,” she says, not quietly or meekly, rather as a matter of fact, as if she were talking about the weather.
“Not going to argue with you about it. Got a beer?”
Another blush. “God… I’m sorry. Bad hostess but honestly, you threw me off with the flowers and I haven’t recovered. Beer is in the refrigerator.”
I grin and open the fridge, grabbing two bottles. “Your house is nice. Squirrel Hill is the place to be.”
She nods. “More accurately, I’m on the edge of Squirrel Hill. Not the rich side with yoga studios and Tesla charging stations. This part’s still a little… unfashionable.”
I glance around, still impressed. “And yet it feels kind of pricey for a kindergarten teacher.”
She accepts a beer from me and takes a small sip before setting it on the counter next to her cutting board. “It was my grandmother’s. She left it to me. Said my brothers were already settled with better-paying careers, and I needed a good place to grow something. Caleb and Eli helped me fix it up. A lot of paint. A lot of trial and error. A lot of love.”
I smile. “It suits you. Cozy. A little eccentric. I like it a lot.”
She nods at the oven. “Flattery gets you garlic bread. My mom’s secret recipe.”
“Is she Italian?”
“No,” she says on a laugh. “But she cooks like she is.”
For the next hour, we finish preparing the meal—I’m in charge of stirring the RAGÚ—and we eat at her small kitchen table next to a window that overlooks the backyard. The conversation flows easily and I even brave petting Buttermilk who doesn’t seem to like me but isn’t chewing off my leg.
We delve deeper into topics we already discussed, mostly family. She tells me more about her siblings and their close relationship, but that her niece Sadie is the most important thing in her life. I didn’t ask, but I have no doubt she wants kids.
In turn, I share more about my deadbeat dad, how he left my mom when Daniela was seven and I was only three. That my mom raised us both by working two jobs and she is who I am closest to. I don’t share with her that I want lots of kids.