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I furrowed my brow. “Really? That seems too easy.”

He swirled the content of his glass and shrugged. “I told you it’s simple. It may need more salt and pepper, and personally, I like basil and parsley too.”

“Do you use fresh or dried herbs?” I leaned casually against the counter and sipped my wine. And almost did a spit-take at Mateo’s deadpan stare. He didn’t crack a smile until I almost choked around a laugh, wiping tears from the corner of my eyes. “Asshole.”

“So I’ve been told,” he quipped. “You can use either, but I prefer fresh. Too many people buy dried herbs and never check the expiration dates. Then they put fifteen-year-old nutmeg in their gingerbread cookies and wonder why they taste weird.”

“That would be my mom. I helped her clean out her pantry when Dad was in the hospital for gallbladder surgery last summer. She had cans of soup from the last century.”

Mateo widened his eyes comically. “No.”

“Yep. There’s a strong possibility she’s been serving expired soup for years. Kate and Gwen think the fact that we survived meatloaf surprise and Mom’s chicken casserole with potato-chip toppings means we have cast-iron stomachs and are probably immune to most diseases.”

He chuckled as he lifted the lid on the pan to stir the sauce. “Not a great cook, eh?”

“Nope. I love my mom, but if my sisters and I hadn’t learned some basic skills, we’d have starved. And I do mean basic. I was the king of mac and cheese, omelets, and protein drinks in high school. You have no idea how happy I was that my full ride to Great H included a generous meal plan.”

“You had a scholarship?” he asked, replacing the lid.

“Mmhmm. I wouldn’t have been able to afford a four-year college otherwise. My folks are retired junior high teachers. It wasn’t in the budget. The plan was for me to go to the local community college and transfer after a couple of years on my own dime.”

“But you knew how to play football.”

I inclined my chin. “Yeah. I had a short stint with flag football in elementary school and didn’t play again till freshman year at Spring Creek High. I was a big kid, more chubby than muscular, though. They put me on defense, and it stuck. I wanted to try another position in college, but?—”

“Like what?”

“Quarterback.” I grinned at his faux glower and continued. “Or tight end. Coach wouldn’t hear of it. He needed me to be a beast…so I was. No complaints here. Football has given me opportunities beyond my wildest dreams. The memorabilia in the shop is meant to be an acknowledgment of that, in case you’re curious. I love this town. It’s been good to me.”

“I know I’m gonna sound like a dick, but if I’m hearing correctly, you just admitted to gunning for my job in college, having a limited skill set in the kitchen, and to moving back to town for a victory lap. Which means…I was right about you.”

There was no malice in his tone. It was a straightforward assessment…very on brand for a man who didn’t mince words.

“You’re right about sounding like a dick. The rest…no. I don’t have your culinary lineage of amazing cooks from the mother land, but my grandfather owned a bagel shop. After he passed away, my aunt and uncle ran the business for a decade or so, but they’re older now and not interested in the long hours, and there was no one else to pick up the torch. Including me. I could have moved home, but—” I stopped abruptly, surprised at how much personal info I’d shared. Had to be the wine. I gestured to the stove. “How much longer till it’s ready?”

“Ten minutes.”

“Mm, it already smells great. I’ll boil some water for pasta.” I could feel Mateo’s watchful gaze as I filled a pot and set it on the burner next to the simmering sauce.

“Why didn’t you want to go home?” he asked softly. “You’re obviously close to your family. Your eyes crinkle when you talk about them…like you miss them.”

“I do.” I topped off our wineglasses to give my hands something to do. “Not all my memories were great, though. And maybe it’s silly, but my least favorite thing about visiting home is running into shitheads who bullied me mercilessly in grade school and having to act like that crap didn’t leave scars while I sign jerseys for their kids. My mom likes to say it’s karma doing her work and that I should enjoy it, but…”

“You don’t,” he finished.

“No. I don’t want to think about being scared all the fucking time and the daily mental ambush. I was too fat, too ugly, too stupid, my clothes weren’t trendy, my backpack was a hand-me-down. I never fit in until I picked up a football. Even then, I was too soft—at first anyway.”

“I’m sorry. Bullies suck.” Mateo frowned, gnawing on his bottom lip.

“Yeah, I probably shouldn’t be holding grudges on behalf of my younger self, but preteen me was a sensitive kid. Imagine my horror when I realized some of the things they said about me were true. Maybe everything. Iwaschubby, ugly, uncool, and…gay. That last one was a mind fuck. The kids in my town used ‘gay’ to describe anything unsavory—tacky shoes, a bad movie, a song they didn’t like. I didn’t want to be gay.” I let out a humorless laugh. “It got better in high school because of football. Suddenly, I was valuable. My stats were amazing, coaches loved me, my teammates saw me as an asset, and no one made fun of my shortcomings ’cause they liked what I could do.”

“That’s good.”

“Sure, but I was still gay…very gay. So you might say the accolades were tinged with the kind of fear that eats at your insides. If I wasn’t on a football field, I was a wreck, constantly worrying that someone was gonna figure me out.”

“Sorry. I know how that feels.”

I nodded.Yeah, I bet he did.