Page 69 of Summer Reading

“Hmm.” He scratched the scruff on his chin. “Not owning a restaurant, I can’t help with that. What other dreams do you have?”

“I want to write a cookbook,” I said. I clapped myhand over my mouth. “Forget I said that. I never said it. It’s a dumb idea.”

“What? No!” he cried. “That’s brilliant.”

“Um, shockingly, writing isn’t my strong suit,” I said. “And I’d have to jot down the recipes from scratch by myself, because my vovó did everything from memory. She never wrote anything down. I want the cookbook to be all of the recipes she taught me while growing up, but like I said she kept them all in her head and she left them all in mine.” I tapped my temple with my finger. “Although I appreciate your enthusiasm.”

“Samantha,” he said. His voice was a low sexy drawl, and it curled around my insides just like his hands reached out and pulled me up against him. “I can be your scribe and write down your recipes while you cook.” He leaned down and kissed me, catching me with my mouth open, which he took full advantage of. When I was thoroughly dazed and bemused, he leaned back from me and deployed one of his highly suggestive, wicked winks. “I’ll be your secretary and your sous-chef, if need be.”

Oh wow.

Chapter Seventeen

After a day spent day dreaming about my cookbook, I was back in the library parking lot at five to pick up Tyler from camp. He climbed into the passenger seat, flinging his backpack into the foot well and looking like he wanted to rip someone’s head off. I was sensing a post-robotics pattern here. But maybe he was just hangry.

“You all right?” I asked.

“Yeah.”

It was the most loadedyeahI’d ever heard. I wondered what my dad would have said if he were me. When I thought back to my teen years and my sullen moods, I remembered that my dad had pretty much said nothing. I tried to do the same even though it’s not my nature to ignore a person who is clearly in the throes of something.

I drove out of the lot and down School Street, meandering through the narrow roads until I reached our house. When I parked the car, Tyler grabbed his bag and stomped into the house. There was no thank you, no how was your day, no nothing.

As the door slammed behind him, I was pretty sure teenagers had been created as a warning for anyone contemplating parenthood. These were not the fun years. I had only to look at my own adolescence to know this was true.

In an effort to get the kid to chill out, I made plain pasta and garlic toast. Then, because I’m me, I grilled some linguica and made a side salad. He didn’t have to eat it, but it was there if he dared step out of his food comfort zone.

“Tyler! Dinner!” I yelled.

“I’m right here,” he said. He was standing behind me.

“Oh.” I started.

He slouched into the kitchen and threw himself into one of the dining chairs. He looked at the food on the table and grunted.

“You made plain pasta?”

I shrugged. “You seemed to need comfort food.”

“Thanks.” I wasn’t sure if he meant it or if good manners had just been nagged into him by Stephanie.

“You’re welcome,” I said. We dished our food and I noticed he took some of the sausage and a little bit of the salad. Not enough to keep a hamster alive, but I still figured it was a win. Then he drowned it in ranch dressing. I held back my sigh. Barely.

“Want to tell me what’s wrong?” I asked.

He stabbed one of the rigatoni as if it was anenemy’s eyeball. Then he dropped his fork and looked at me. “It’s you.”

“Me?” I choked on a cherry tomato. I coughed it down and asked, “What did I do? Is this because I won’t teach you to drive?”

“No,” he said. “I just heard from Ryan that you’re teaching a teen cooking class at the library.”

“So?” I asked.

“So, a bunch of the robotics kids have signed up,” he said. His voice was very dramatic.

I chewed carefully, considering why this might be a problem, and came up with nothing. “I’m not getting why you care.”

“Because you’re my sister,” he said.

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