Total pages in book: 54
Estimated words: 51193 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 256(@200wpm)___ 205(@250wpm)___ 171(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 51193 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 256(@200wpm)___ 205(@250wpm)___ 171(@300wpm)
“I want to.” Smiling, she taps her long nails on the table. “By the looks of your house, I think your teammates could use a decent meal, too.”
I laugh. “What makes you say that?”
“Your living room was a wreck and had old beer bottles and bags of open Doritos on the table. It’s a full-blown bachelor pad.”
I do my best to keep the house from falling down and constantly have to clean up after everyone. Preston helps a lot, and his bitching at everyone all the time doesn’t hurt. We’re like the parents of the team. Kinda sad when I think about it.
“You sure you want to cook for my entire house? Do you have any idea how much food you will need to make?”
“I worked for a catering company in high school.” She winks at me. “I have an idea.”
“You really don’t have to do that, Shan. We can make do with what we have.”
“Jamie,” she groans. “I know you well enough to know that you will pay for Jordan’s dress, even though it’s my responsibility. So, let me do this for you. Okay?”
“Fine,” I concede. “But let me buy the food.”
She frowns. “Fine. I’ll text you a list.”
“What are you making for us?”
She bites the inside of her cheek, thinking it over. “Do you like surprises?”
“I don’t dislike them.”
“Then it will be a surprise. Is Thursday night okay? I have to work first and then I can come over.”
“Yeah. We have hockey practice in the afternoon. Everyone should be home after that.”
“Good.” Shannon smiles so wide it reaches up to her green irises. “You can help me cook.”
The one thing I can’t do…
Chapter Four
Shannon
Kneading the dough in my hands, I consider the menu for Thursday. I still can’t believe I offered to cook dinner for half of the men’s ice hockey team. What was I thinking? Around Jamie, I find it hard to gather my thoughts. He makes my mind race to the point I can’t concentrate.
“How come you’re not using the stand mixer?” Mrs. Rizzo says from behind me.
“I enjoy doing it by hand. It relaxes me.”
She steps next to me, taking a large handful of dough from the stainless steel bowl on the table in front of me. “My Antonio said the same thing. He’d stand here for hours listening to Italian folk songs while he made the bread.” Her gaze falls on me, and I can see the concern on her withered face. “You look worried, child?”
“I have a lot going on at school. Between my coursework, my sorority, and the boy I like—”
“A boy?” Her voice reaches a higher octave. “What’s his name?”
“Jameson… well, he goes by Jamie. I’ve known him for years.”
“Is this boy a friend?”
“Sort of. We were acquaintances until this weekend when we kissed. And now we’re something else. I’m not sure what, though.”
“Men are complicated.” She drops the dough to the wooden board and grabs a rolling pin. “But if he’s the right one, he’ll make your life easier. That’s how you’ll know he’s the one.”
I chuckle. “The one? Mrs. R, we’re barely friends.”
She hums a tune under her breath as she works with the dough. “Lovers?”
I shrug. “No, not yet.”
“Pay attention to how he treats you. A lot of men will say things you want to hear, but a man who deserves your time and attention will show you with his actions.”
I smile at her. “You always give the best advice, Mrs. R. How did you get so wise?”
A smile tugs at the corners of her mouth. “Age and experience. My Antonio taught me a lot of things over the years. I had to kiss a few frogs before I found my prince.”
“Mr. R was a good man,” I offer.
She turns her head away from me for a second before meeting my gaze with a hint of tears in her dark eyes. “He was. I miss him every day. The bakery isn’t the same without him around.”
Seeing the pain on her face, I want to wrap my arms around her and squeeze the life from her. Mr. Rizzo hired me at the beginning of my senior year of high school. He passed away from cancer last year. We both miss him. He was like a grandfather to me—a kind man who would do anything for anyone.
His smiling face and the beautiful Italian songs he used to hum are just a few of the things missing around here. I can’t imagine what it must feel like to lose the love of your life. Mrs. Rizzo puts on a strong front, but I know she’s hurting on the inside.
“You can leave early,” Mrs. Rizzo says. “I can finish up here.”
I glance up at the clock on the wall across the room. “I still have another fifteen minutes.”
She cups my shoulder. “Go ahead. You have two buses to catch, a little brother to tuck into bed, and I’m sure plenty of homework.”