Page 18 of Until August
Slim to none.
I had no idea why she was yelling to me from the other room, but I was too lazy to leave the sofa. Last night I was up all night, tossing and turning, and I barely slept. “It feels like a million years ago,” I said, hypnotized by the fan blades as they spun around and around.
I’d met August Harper at a Farmers Market in LA, of all places. My parents owned Benedetti Salumeria, a local market that imported food from Italy. My mother thought the Farmers Market would be good exposure, so I went to help my father that Saturday.
I was only sixteen, and August must have been eighteen, but he’d seemed older and a lot more experienced than me.
Even all these years later, the memory was so vivid it was imprinted on my brain. I even remembered what he wore that day. A black leather jacket, the leather cracked and worn, biker boots, and faded denim with rips in the knees. He was carrying a motorcycle helmet and wore an old concert tee under his jacket. The writing was so faded I couldn’t even tell which band it was.
I remembered how the strands of his longish brown hair kept falling into his face. Wavy and unruly, unstructured but perfectly tousled. Instead of using his hand to push the stray locks away though, he’d jerk his head, and his hair would fall into place as if by magic.
I remembered how the mellow October sunshine made his green eyes appear almost translucent.
My father had taken one look at him and declared that he was trouble. “Stay away from boys like that,” he’d warned as the guy in leather swaggered over to our table.
He’d looked likelier to be in the middle of a street fight or making out with a girl in a dark alley than hanging out at a Farmers Market.
But somehow, he and my father ended up arguing about the right way to make ragu. My father was a massive foodie who believed there was only one right way.Hisway. So it enraged him that an ‘upstart’ would dare to contradict him.
When my father had gone to wait on a paying customer, the guy in leather turned his attention to me. “So, what’s your view on Sicilian pistachios?”
“They’re far superior to any other pistachio,” I’d said, mimicking my father’s voice.
The guy had laughed and raked his gaze over me like cool guys did when trying to decide if a girl was worth their time. “You’re cute.”
I’d squared my shoulders and drew myself up to my full height of five feet ten inches. I’d had a growth spurt that summer. “Nobody’s ever called me cute.”
He gave me a cocky grin. “I just did.” He jerked his chin at the pistachio display I’d just finished setting up. “How about you give me some of those pistachios?”
He didn’t look like he had the money to pay for them, and I’d never hear the end of it if I gave something away for free. “Give me one good reason why I should,” I challenged.
“Because I fucking love pistachios. In fact, I’m craving them. It’s the only thing I want to eat right now.”
The way he’d said it so suggestively made it sound like he was talking about something else. “Pistachios,” I clarified.
“Mmhmm. And when I’ve eaten my fill, I’ll make a creamy sauce. Ricotta. Sicilian pistachios. Freshly grated parmesan. Then I’ll toss it together with homemade farfalle.”
I’d leaned in closer, thoroughly seduced but trying to play it cool. Finally, there was a guy who knew the way to my heart. Nothing excites me more than a hot guy who can cook. So I was already putty in his hands.
He looked like a bad boy and had the distinct scent of a bad boy—leather and cigarettes. “Farfalle. Fancy. But it would taste so much better with scialatielli.” I’d pronounced the word exactly as my father had taught me, like a proper Italian.
He’d licked his full lips, his eyes at half-mast, and groaned as if I’d just suggested that we duck into an alley so I could suck his dick. “Don’t tease me with your food porn.”
“Hai degli occhi molto belli.”You have beautiful eyes. I was braver in Italian.
He bit the corner of his mouth, and I was a goner.
I handed him a one-pound bag of pistachios when my father wasn’t looking. My gift to a hot boy in leather with the greenest eyes I’d ever seen. “Use them wisely. They’re worth their weight in gold.”
“And how about you? Are you worth your weight in gold?”
“I’m worthsomuch more.”
“I’ll bet you are.” He’d leaned across the pistachio display, knocking them over, grabbed the back of my neck, and pulled me closer. Then, before I’d even had a chance to process what was happening, he kissed me.
The kind of kiss that made my legs wobbly and my stomach flip. It left me breathless and dazed.
“Save it for someone who’s worth it.”
