Page 22 of The Princess and the Pizza Man

“Cooking?” Maybelle asked. “Oh, believe me, I hear ya. If it weren’t for Will, I swear I’d be starving. The one time I tried to cook for the family, they all ended up with veiny chicken and doughy cornbread. It traumatized me so bad I haven’t set foot in front of a stove since.”

Winter grinned at the way Maybelle told a story with her accent and her hand gestures. If she wasn’t careful, full glasses were going to topple at any moment.

“I am the same way,” Winter said, lightly tapping Maybelle’s hand. “I tried working a toaster when I was six, stuck a fork in it to fish the toaster pastry out, and next thing I knew, I was being carted away to the ER.”

“Y’all fooling me.”

Winter shook her head. “My father was a wreck. He kept running around the ER, babbling what-ifs to anyone who would listen. ‘What if she loses her hand? What if it shocked some of her brain cells out? What if she falls asleep and never wakes up?’ Meanwhile I was happily playing with the toy beads in the corner, singing along with Cinderella on the children’s TV.”

Maybelle put a hand to her chest. “That is so sweet.”

Winter blinked, the veracity of that statement hitting her for the first time. “Yes,” she agreed. “I suppose it is.” The grief of losing her parents always came so suddenly, she was rarely prepared for it. She liked to think of them with a smile, believing they were truly in a better place—and considering the way they’d lived, where they were now had to be extraordinary.

But occasionally she would be reminded of just how alone she was, and the grief would eat at the backs of her eyeballs, prickle her heart, and sink her stomach into a black abyss.

She drew a breath, putting a smile back on and remembering where she was and why she’d put Maybelle next to her.

“So, what brought you to Frostville Mansion?” she asked as casually as she could muster. Maybelle didn’t seem to want to ask questions about the mystery itself, so Winter found it easy to slip out of character.

“Oh, that silly rumor,” she said, waving her hand before taking another bite. “I’m determined not to become a cat lady this early in life, and back home I’m pretty much ancient to all the decent men. I’m here to spread my horizons and pray that Eros finds it in his mercy to shoot me right in the chest with that heart-tipped arrow of his.”

Winter’s insides practically leapt at how open she was. Getting to know her would be easy, especially compared to her absolute opposite, closed-off brother.

“Ooh,” Winter said, settling her chin in her hand. “Have your prayers been answered yet?”

Maybelle’s blue eyes—just like her brother’s—-sparkled, and she leaned in, letting out a blissful sigh. “Heaven help me, I sure hope so.”

“Who?” Winter scooted closer, heart pounding as she wondered if Maybelle would point out any of the men she’d already picked.

“I don’t want to jinx anythin’,” she said, sitting back into her chair. Winter didn’t hide her frown as she leaned back as well. “Besides, I betcha anything that someone at this table can hear every word I’m sayin’…”

Michael, who was at least five seats away, slowly raised his hand in the air and then grinned at them both. The guests around him looked utterly confused as to what he was doing, but Maybelle and Winter burst into a fit of giggles.

The soup was next, and Winter salivated the moment she smelled it enter the room. She saw Maybelle silently laughing out of the corner of her eye as Winter bounced in her seat.

“You and Will are like synchronized eaters,” Maybelle said, eyes toggling between the opposite ends of the table. Will stretched his neck to see what was in the dishes the servers were bringing out, looking much like a meerkat.

“Is that what I look like?” Winter asked, jokingly appalled. “Yikes!”

Maybelle raised her eyebrows as the soup was in front of her. “But… I really can’t blame you for dancing. This looks…”

“It’s amazing.”

Maybelle pushed back her red curls and leaned forward to take a sip. Her moan was so loud that every head at the table turned, a few chuckles making the rounds as Maybelle looked up, completely unashamed at how loud she was. “I think I just died.”

A round of laughter fell over the table, and most guests dove into their own bowls, more groans and moans echoing through the room. Winter hoped Kasey would hear it; there’s no better compliment than dancing and grunting to a meal.

After a few more minutes in which most people were silent—because they were in soup heaven—Winter shook her head and scolded herself for getting distracted again. Maybelle was just so easy to sit next to, to talk with, and so easily relatable with everything she said that Winter had forgotten that she needed to be watching for clues. She was also trying to solve a mystery: who was the perfect man for this southern beauty?

She caught eyes with Will across the very large table, satisfaction on his face as he cleaned his mouth with a napkin. He gave her a nod, and her stomach fluttered. She’d never received that sort of nod before, or if she had, it never caused her neck to flush, her heart to stop working, or her breath to catch. It was so subtle and lasted for less than a second that she wondered if it was him or just the effects of the taco soup.

Probably the food.

She ripped her eyes away from him and focused on Maybelle again. “Can you tell me about Alabama?” she asked, wanting the subject to stay right where it needed to—Maybelle’s life. “I’ve never been, but I’ve always wanted to.”

Maybelle’s hands started moving before her lips did, and Winter dodged a flying arm.

“Oh, it’s wonderful! And awful. But it’s a great place to visit! I’m not so sure I wanna stay, though, that is…”

---