Page 55 of True North

I scoff a laugh. “Date? That’s what you call that pathetic show of ditching a girl midway through a dance?”

His chin tilts up and he puffs out his scrawny torso, his striped short sleeves pressed into a crease billowing over his thin arms. “Where do you get off?—”

I grab his collar and lean in, my face inches from his.

“You’re done, Bradley. You left her standin’ on the damn dance floor. You’re done.” I shove him and he falters backward on the seat.

“Okay!” His hands shoot up in the air like he’s in a goddamn hold up. I turn to walk away. “Fine, she’s all yours, Rawlins. Too loose for me, anyway. Always wanted to be touched. Ugh, it’s not proper.”

I spin back. My fist connects with his pasty jaw a split second later. He flails backward. The chair plummets to the floor and he slams into the wooden floor. His buddies shoot out of their seats and put space between us. Neither of them offers Brad assistance. Figures.

“Harry?” The small and very familiar voice snaps me from my tunnel vision. Ma’s hand rests on my forearm. “I think I’m ready to go home.”

I turn back to her. She offers me a small smile and nods.

“Right.” I stalk for the doors, Ma trailing behind.

Not even an hour after I finally break through that Louisa May Masters wall, and I’m a moody possessive hothead already. And the feeling of helplessness, of overwhelming need... of the absolute desire to fall headfirst into her has me in a vise grip. Like it did a decade ago.

I’ve always felt too much.

It has a history of driving me to do emotionally rash things. Like proposing on prom night. And punching pasty accountants.

The upside... it lets me read people.

And I count it as a gift.

But, hell, fuck me.

ChapterFourteen

LOUISA

Mama Mancini transfers the large pot to the burner. Her grip falters and it drops with a bang. I glance up from the chopping board, waiting to make sure she’s okay. Today we are working on a red sauce recipe she had handed down to her from her grandmother. Culinarily speaking, it’s a huge deal. And the fact she’s sharing it with me makes me so grateful and beyond excited.

“You like this kitchen, bella?” Old eyes peer over the pot at me, her hand stirring at a rhythmic pace.

“I like being in it with you,” I send back over the top of the pot.

“Good, good.”

I crush the garlic and dice the onion as instructed. When I’m done, I scrape the tiny morsels into the pot. We stand, watching the bubbles pop in the surface of the sauce as the fragrant scents of herbs, garlic, and something so very Italian infiltrates every inch of the old kitchen.

The front door opens, sending the small bells jingling. It’s a little early for the lunch rush yet. I lean backward, poking my head around the door to see who it is.

I find a cowboy hat as it slips off a dark head of hair. I snap back straight and press my hands to the wall, letting my forehead meet the wallpaper.

“Oh, now I know who it is.” Mama smiles at me.

Dammit. I’m that obvious. I can’t help it.

And it’s my own fault. Because I knew this would happen. This is what I ran from last time. The flood of every emotion I feel at the sight of him.

“Go, go! I will save you some. And the recipe is in your folder already.” She taps the beige folder under the counter I have been saving the recipes she teaches me in.

“Are you sure? I should stay and clean up.”

She waves a hand at me. “Papa can help me clean up. You go, while I’m still young, bella.”

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