Page 64 of Boyfriend of the Hour

I just chuckled. “Sorry. Go on.”

Marie sighed. “I was just saying, that doesn’t mean I’m not into men. Which…I am. I guess—Jo! What are you even doing?”

I looked up from where I had inserted my hand into the lukewarm tomato sauce past my wrist. “What? You said to mix in the basil by hand, so that’s what I’m doing.”

“Jo, that just means with a spoon, not shove your whole hand into the sauce. And I saidsprinkleby hand, not mix. As a garnish.” Marie smacked a hand to her forehead. “How much basil did you put in there?”

“Um, all of it?” I looked down at the sauce, now riddled with ribbons of basil that were quickly wilting into blackish wormy things. “The sauce is kind of brown now. Is it supposed to look like that?”

“Is marinara sauce supposed to look like brown sludge?”

I huffed. “Why do you have to be such a know-it-all, Mimi?”

The banter was purely out of habit; I was already moving to the sink to wash the sauce off my hand.

“Just put it back on the stove and cook it down. Maybe we can blend it up into a pesto-kind of thing.”

“So, tell the truth,” I said after I returned to the stove, where I could both talk and stir the sauce with a spoon instead of my hand. “You haven’t hooked up with one French hottie?”

Immediately, Marie turned the color of a red, red rose as she turned away from her desk.

She’d given me a tour of her tiny French apartment, which had a great view from the top floor of her building but, as a former maid’s quarters, was about the size of a shoebox. Right now, she was lying on her twin bed/couch, fiddling with a recipe she wanted to bring to class the next morning.

“Mimi, comeon,” I said when she didn’t respond. “How can you still be a virgin in the city of love? Half the point of you going to Paris was to give it up at last.”

“I came to Paris to learn to be a chef, you brat. And that’s exactly what I’m doing. I don’t have time to date.”

“Is it that? Or are you still saving yourself for your boss?”

Her cheeks went from red to outright scarlet. “Daniel isnotmy boss.”

“He’s your boss’s son, which is basically the same thing,” I said, enjoying the upper hand.

My sister had worked for the extremely wealthy Lyons family in Westchester since she was sixteen, first as a part-time maid, then as an assistant cook. When their cook announced her retirement, the family decided to send her to Paris to train as her replacement.

They knew she was talented as a chef. What they didn’t know is that she had been in love with one of their sons, Daniel Lyons, since she had first started working there.

“Let me ask: does he even know you exist?” I wondered. “Did you even say goodbye before you left?”

She was avoiding the screen like her phone was the one staring at her instead of me. “I did.”

“Did you do what I suggested?”

Her glare was immediate. “Did I wait in his bedroom naked? Absolutely not. Not everyone is comfortable walking around in their birthday suit likesomepeople I know.”

I giggled. Just the idea of my prudish sister, who was generally more covered up than a nun, showing more than an ankle to her crush, was hilarious.

“It’s called body confidence, dude. You should try it. It might get you laid.”

“Not everyone jumps into bed with a person right after meeting them,” Marie mumbled. “Maybe you should trynotdoing that for once. You might get more done in your life.”

I opened my mouth to argue back but found I couldn’t. I was too busy smiling.

“What is it? Are you laughing at me? It’s not my fault you messed up the sauce.”

I tipped my head. “Just enjoying myself.”

I guess absence really does make the heart grow fonder.