Page 3 of The Change Up
She nods her response. Spinning her, I grab her wrists, gliding them up until they are wrapped around my neck erasing the space between us. She moves and grinds her hips to my front.
Heated eyes find mine, no doubt covered in a glassy film from all of the alcohol I’ve consumed. “You know how to work your body.”
With that praise, she’s pulling my face to hers. Our lips find each other, only this time it’s in a welcomed kiss. With a flick of my tongue against the seam of her lips, I prompt her to open for me. My tongue dives into her mouth, and I don’t fight the groan that escapes. One of her arms slowly slips from around my neck, gliding across my chest, and brushing the zipper of my pants. My cock twitches at the contact.
Tongues tangling, I welcome the very public, very graphic display of affection. Getting lost in the moment, I skate myhands from her hips and grip her round globes, pulling her harder to me.
A minute later, Monica is stumbling into me. Breaking our kiss to catch us both from falling over, I’m just about to turn and have words with the dick who bumped into us only to see golden hair flying through the door. The smell invades my senses.
Lilies.
Sandalwood.
Wildflowers.
Her.
“Amore Mia.”
“Hi, Dad!” I greet, using my dough-covered fingers to place the call on speaker.
“How’s my favorite daughter?”
A soft chuckle escapes my lips. “Dad,” I groan. “I’m your only daughter.”
“Therefore my favorite.” I shake my head. This is such a dad joke, and mine uses it all the time. “What are you doing this morning?”
“I’m currently wrist-deep in pizza dough for girls’ night tonight.” My eyes glance around the kitchen of the townhouse I share with Brynn as I take in the mess before me. This morning I was in the mood to do some major baking which means now the white granite counters are scattered with baking ingredients and dirty dishes.
Being in the kitchen is my favorite form of self-care. It’s a way for me to shut my brain off, embrace the chaos, and make something beautiful. The kitchen is my source of solace. I knowI’m an anomaly, and you won’t find many college-aged people in the kitchen making homemade pasta and baking loaves of bread, but it’s what I enjoy.
It allows me to connect with my dad. Growing up, I was always in the kitchen helping him. I loved being his sous chef, and by helping him I, too, grew to love cooking and baking. My mind flashes to a memory I had long forgotten. I was seven, standing on a step stool, missing two front teeth, and my hair was piled high in uneven pigtails because my dad hadn’t gotten the hang of doing them. Flour coated my face as he taught me how to make scones. The recipe came from his mom—my nana—as the two of us were needing something comforting.
Over the years, he’s given up and lost a lot along the way, but one thing that never wavered was his hard work and dedication. It’s admirable to see how hard he’s worked to be where he is in his career by the age of forty.
When I was twelve, Dad got his big break. He won a food competition which earned him the award of becoming a sous chef at a top restaurant in Dallas. Between a food critic and journalist at the local paper, he was featured in a few articles talking about the next up-and-coming chef to hit Dallas. This was the gateway to the biggest career break he could have asked for. Now Scott Mariano is a Michelin-star chef and one of the country’s top chefs. He owns two restaurants—an Italian restaurant in Dallas called Amore and Mariano’s Prime Chophouse in Boston.
We owe a lot to the journalists who wrote dozens of articles on Dad. Seeing how crucial featured pieces are to newcomers in the food industry, it really inspired me to pursue a degree in journalism. I want to meet and highlight local chefs and help someone get their big break. Ideally, I’d love to get a job working forBon Appétitmagazine or even writing articles for Food Network’s website.
My dad hums in response. “What’s my little sous chef baking?”
“Oh you know, a little bit of everything. Vanilla bean scones, chocolate chip cookies, and pizza dough. Brynn and I are having a girls’ night, and pizza sounded good.
“CTU’s very own patisserie. I’m proud of you, Amore Mia.”
A smile breaks free while my body heats with a warm and fuzzy feeling over my dad’s compliment. “Thanks, Dad. I did learn from the best.”
Using my flour-covered hands, I continue kneading the dough working the flour in. Pushing and pulling the dough until it starts to form the correct consistency.
“Speaking of the best,” he begins with a mischievous tone. “I’ve been asked to open a new restaurant in Arizona. It happens to be at a beautiful spa, and I’m arranging for you and your friends to stay there to celebrate the end of your junior year. Which I’m still in denial about.”
My hands freeze and sink in the dough. My stomach flutters with excitement.
“Are you serious?” My voice breaks in a squeal. A little happy dance breaks free, and I’m prancing my feet up and down. Giddiness rolls through me.
Growing up, Dad and I didn’t have a lot. It was just the two of us after my mom up and left us when I was six. Dad and I have always made do with what we had. We lived in a two-bedroom apartment that some days felt no bigger than a shoe box, especially when Dad was trying out new recipes in the kitchen. Pots and pans littered every available space, the dirty ones often ended up on the floor to make room for more cooking.
It was a sacrifice.
