Page 12 of Perfect Pairing
I found myself counting down the days until Christmas time, when, thanks to her parents, I knew she’d be returning to our small town.
“Now, how about we get down to business?” Leon asked, clearing his throat and snapping me out of my thoughts.
Damn, this man would murder me and bury my body in the vineyard if he knew I was romantically interested in his daughter.
Then again…was I really? Or was it some weird, flukey physical attraction that would wear off with distance?
Given that had yet to happen, I was betting not.
“Obviously, I’ve never participated in this event,” I started, forcing myself to focus on the here and now, “so I’m not sure what’s expected of me.”
“Finger foods,” Lena said, twisting to reach into the bag slung over the back of her chair and withdrawing a piece of paper.
She passed it to me, and I scanned the list of ideas in her elegant scrawl.
“Turkey legs?” I asked, huffing a laugh.
“There’s just something very…fallabout people walking around gnawing on massive turkey legs, don’t you think?”
I didn’t, but I wasn’t about to tell her that. At least, not with her husband sitting nearby.
I liked my head attached to my body, thank you very much.
“Otherwise,” Lena continued, “I was thinking mozzarella sticks, corn dogs, hot dogs and burgers, pepperoni pizzarolls—”
“Oh, I actually have an amazing recipe for those,” I said, perking up for the first time. There wasn’t anything wrong with the items Lena had listed, but they were all things you could buy at the store and cook at home. Until she mentioned pizza rolls, I was having difficulty imagining why my services were necessary. “I make them like a pinwheel shape instead of the traditional pizza roll style. Hansen loves them.”
“Then they’ll be perfect for the festival.”
“I have some other ideas as well…”
“Such as?” Leon asked, tone warning me to tread carefully.
“I like corn dogs because, I must admit, my beer batter recipe is top-notch. But for the rest of it, I think we can get a little more creative. Do you have a pen?”
Lena dove back into her purse and withdrew one of the winery branded pens, handing it to me. I flipped her list over and began to scribble.
“Walking tacos, bacon-wrapped corn, stuffed potato pancakes, deep fried pickles,” I listed as I wrote. “Deep fried macaroni and cheese bites, fried green tomatoes, and some of my famous Swedish meatballs.”
When I looked up at the Delatous after finishing my brainstorm, they had their brows raised in question.
“Are you sure you want to put that much work into it?” Lena asked.
“Positive,” I assured her. “Things like mozzarella sticks and hot dogs and burgers are great, but they’re all things people could easily go out, buy, and make at home. This stuff”—I gestured to my list—“isn’t as complicated as you think, and I think the festival goers will really appreciate the variety.”
“If you’re sure…”
“I am. But I hope you’re putting someone else on sweets,” I said with a chuckle. “I can’t be held accountable for that. I’d burn everything.”
“Oh, I’m sure you’re not that bad, but we’ve got someone in Traverse City handling all that.” She turned to her husband. “It’s a shame Brie isn’t home, though. She always loved the festival growing up.”
“Where did she learn to bake?” I blurted, desperate for more intel on this girl. “Neither of you can cook.”
They were both still for a beat before Leon tipped his head back and laughed loud enough that the girl carrying our appetizers jumped and nearly dumped them on the ground. I leapt to my feet, steadying her with my hands on her upper arms. She looked up at me gratefully, though I didn’t miss the pink tinge to her cheeks.
Quickly, she set down our food and scurried away. When I returned my attention to the Delatous, they wore matching bemused expressions.
“What?” I asked, lifting a piece of grilled bread and spreading some of the whipped ricotta.
