Page 27 of The Vow

Holding his stare, I brought the cereal to my mouth and popped a few between my lips, giving him my best blasé expression before turning away like I’d seen nothing of interest.

“Madonna Robyn?”

I squeaked, cereal flying from my hand and almost losing the entire box to the floor.

“Oh, Madonna!” the older woman exclaimed. “Please, let me. Let me.”

I winced as she swatted my hand away with surprising force, sweeping in with a dustpan and brush that I hadn’t even seen her get out.

“Thank you.”

She stood, smiled, looked at the cereal box, and then frowned.

“Cereal is not for dinner,” she declared, her heavy Italian accent as scolding as the way she yanked the box from my hand.

With a string of muttered curses, she left me standing there, gaping, as she returned the box to the cabinet.

“I kept warm for you,” she said, opening the bottom of the two wall ovens and pulling out a plate covered in foil.

Guilt rushed through me. She’d made me dinner, and I’d offended her by going for cereal instead. Damon had mentioned the dinner, but I’d assumed it came with his company, so I avoided it.In my defense, I hadn’t known she’d hidden my plate in the oven to keep it warm, otherwise, I would’ve eagerly eaten it.

“I’m sorry,” I murmured, banding my arms over my chest.

She plucked the foil off the ceramic dish, the scent of pecorino and pancetta drawing me right to her.

“What’s your name?”

“Nonna.”

My lips pursed. That was what Damon called her, but it wasn’t her name; it meant grandmother in Italian.

“No, I mean?—”

“Nonna,” the older woman repeated staunchly, pressing her calloused thumb to her own chest like I was four years oldinstead of approaching forty. And then she pointed to the pasta. “Nonna’s carbonara.”

“Grazie.” It was more or less the only Italian I knew.

In a blink, there was a fork, a napkin, and a glass of red wine stationed around my favorite pasta dish.

“Mangia. Mangia.” The wave of her hands felt threatening as though she might swat me again if I didn’t obey, but I had no desire not to. I could refuse to wear the clothes he bought me, but I wasn’t so petulant that I’d refuse good food as well.

And Nonna didn’t give me a choice. She stood there with her thinning hair pulled back in a severe bun and her arms crossed like she was prepared to force-feed me if I didn’t do it myself.

“Grazie,” I repeated, spooling several strands of noodles onto my fork and taking a bite.

For a brief—very brief—moment, I let myself hate my husband a little less because he’d introduced me to a woman who’d just made me the best carbonara I’d had in my entire life.And it was leftover.

“Traditional carbonara.” She pointed again to my bowl. “No cream. Egg. Pecorino. And guanciale.” She lifted one knobby finger after another as she recounted the simple ingredients.

“Delicious,” I said, my mouth full.

“Grazie. Grazie mille.” She beamed like I’d told her she’d just won the lottery.

Maybe if it didn’t taste so good, I would’ve been annoyed by how she stood there and watched me eat, like the second she looked away I might reach for the cereal again. But itwasthat damn good, so I didn’t care what she did.

After a few minutes, I warmed to her presence. At least, if she were here and Damon came in, we wouldn’t be alone.

“He swims every night.”

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