Page 15

“Where did you get these noodles?” Stefan asked, twirling his fork in the spaghetti like a pro.
“I told you, I made it.”
His eyebrows nearly flew off his face. “You made the noodles? From scratch?”
I nodded and continued eating. “Yep. It’s the only way. I hate boxed.”
He ate another mouthful or two before giving up and laying back down.
I stood and wiped my hands off. Then I walked over to his bed and pushed the button, so the head of his bed rose up again. “You haven’t eaten much. Stay as upright as you can for a while,” I advised him. Then I turned to sit back down again.
“I wish I could eat more but I’m full.” He pushed the table away and sighed.
“Give yourself some time,” I said, as I picked the last few strips of meat off the bones. I was still hungry. This really didn’t hit the spot. Probably because my brain wanted the spaghetti and meat sauce I’d made.
“Francesca,” Stefan said calmly. I loved how he said my name with a slight Italian accent. He definitely looked Italian to me.
Both of his hot friends did, too.
“Francesca?” he said my name again and I looked up. “You should eat the rest of this. It would be a shame to put such a wonderful meal in the garbage.”
I thought about that for all of two seconds before I jumped out of my chair. I grabbed the margarine container and swirled the noodles around my fork. “Mmm,” I said, my eyes fluttering closed with delight. “So good.” And it was. Even though it had cooled off. I didn’t mind. Not one bit.
I loved my sauce. Hot or cold.
Stefan chuckled—well, he kind of did. His chest still hurt him quite a bit. So things like laughing—and breathing—increased his pain significantly.
“What?” I asked with a completely full mouth. But I didn’t care at all. Nothing was getting between me and eating the rest of my food.
“Nothing,” he said with a smirk on his face as he stared at me. His eyes looked me up—and down, causing interesting tingles over my skin. I liked it when Stefan did that. I liked it a lot.
“Did you make the sauce, too?” he asked and cleared his throat.
I nodded and chewed. “Yep,” I said over another mouthful of spaghetti. “And I made meatballs.”
Stefan’s eyebrows rose up and nearly flew off his forehead. “Why didn’t you pack any?” he asked liked I’d ripped him off or something. It was kinda cute.
I grinned. “They’re huge. I didn’t want to pack another container.” I shrugged. His eyes stayed on me like he was trying to tell me something.
I swallowed and smiled. “Would you like me to bring you some meatballs tomorrow?”
He immediately nodded. “Of course, I want your fuckin’ meatballs, Chesca.”
Oh, boy.
He called me by a nickname. And that did funny things to my body.
And my brain.
With a name like Francesca, I tended to get a lot of nicknames. It was a long name and kind of an awkward one to say—and spell.
Mostly, friends called me Frannie or Frankie.
But nobody had called me Chesca. Until now.
“If your noodles and sauce taste this great, I can only imagine how mind blowing your meatballs are going to be.”
I gave him a bashful smile, then turned around to sit down. “They’re pretty good, Stefan.” I grinned even wider at him from the chair.