Page 49 of Can't Kiss the Chef

“So,” Lola says as she claps. “As you all know, Byron and I got paired to work with each other for our restaurant class. We have been having a hard time deciding which pasta dish to include. That’s where you all come in.”

“You have two different versions of homemade pasta, red sauce and meatballs.” I add. “We’ll take a poll after, and the one that wins will make it on to our final menu.”

“Oh,” Lola jumps in. She points at her brother. “Oliver, if you can tell which one is mine, keep your mouth shut.”

The room erupts into laughter as Lola and I retreat back to the kitchen. We set a plate of our own recipe aside for the other to try.

“Holy shit Lo, this is amazing,” I say with a mouth full of food.

She laughs, braving the splash zone for a meatball from my plate.

“What the fuck!”

Lola’s fork falls to the counter, red sauce splashing onto my shirt. She rushes to the table to make sure everyone is okay. I grab the sponge from the sink and start to wipe down the counter. I’m loading the last of the dishes into the dishwasher when Mia starts pawing at my feet.

“Dalton, are you okay?” Indy asks. Not caring enough to stop eating my dish.

“The dog just pissed on my foot. No, I’m not doing okay.” He grits his teeth before peeling his wet socks off.

“I’m going to show him where the shower is,” Lola says nervously.

“Go, we’ll take the vote when you get back.”

When Lola and Dalton are out of earshot the casual conversation starts to pick back up. I’ve never been so happy to clean up one of Mia’s accidents. I can’t tell you why she peed on Dalton; the girl hasn’t had an accident since we got back to Westvale.

Mia takes a seat at my feet. Her tail swinging back and forth.

“Did you just make your dad’s whole day? Did you? Did you? I think you did,” I coo.

“Ready to officially be crowned the loser?” Two green eyes peek around the corner.

“Nonna didn’t teach me to cook so I could lose to a wannabe Italian.”

I fall back with my hands over my heart. “Come on, let’s see if this wannabe Italian can pull off the shock of the century.”

We stand shoulder to shoulder as we give our friends a final second to decide on their final vote.

“Alright,” I rub my sweaty palms down the front of my jeans. Fuck I’m nervous. “Thanks for coming today to help settle this little dispute,”

The votes are going to be cast by raised hands so we will essentially know who wins after the initial vote.

“Who liked dish one?”

Indy’s hand raises without hesitation.

One vote for Lola.

It takes a second, but Marcus and Oliver raise their hands

Three votes for Lola.

Aaron is talking to himself, still trying to make a decision.

“You’re not a damn food critic, Aaron make a decision,” Lola snaps.

“Damn, Pipsqueak, give the guy some time. He’ll make the right decision.”

“I liked the first one best,” that damn fool.

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