Page 50 of Lessons in Faking
He must’ve heard my footsteps. “I’m not going to lie, I expected a little more.” His voice was muffled, head still inside the cabinet. Turning, he held a package of pasta in my direction. “But I can work with this.” He tossed the cardboard my way.
I couldn’t help but comment on the fact he’d already disappeared wrist-deep into our fridge. “I’m glad you’re so comfortable here, McCarthy,” I said to his back.
“Me too.” When he turned around, he presented his infamous dimpled grin. I tried not to swoon over it, instead sighing with an eye roll—the only way to divert my gaze without looking suspicious. Mumbling a few more words into the depth of the fridge, he turned around with a finality that made me kiss the idea of takeout goodbye. “How does vodka sauce sound?”
“Great. If it’s half vodka, half sauce.” I blinked up innocently, took pride in the way the corners of his lips quirked.
“Interesting.”
When McCarthy finished his tour of every cabinet, the island was crowded with various spices, leftover heavy cream from Wren’s baking adventures, an unopened tube of tomato paste (where did that come from?), olive oil, some kind of grated cheese, and a bottle of vodka.
“You don’t have fresh garlic or onions, so we’ve got to improvise,” he said, nodding to the spices I didn’t even know we owned.
I wandered around the island, coming to a stop on his side of it, curiously eyeing his findings. “I’ve never even touched a tube of tomato paste, so God knows how that ended up here.” My lack of cooking knowledge clearly amused him. But he seemed rather confident around the kitchen, didn’t he? “You cook often?”
“As much as necessary. Some people want to be able to care for themselves, Princess.” A smug tone played in his words. “Not rely on a delivery guy—what?” He interrupted himself with a gasp. Rubbing the back of his head. Where I’d playfully whacked him with a kitchen towel.
I wish I could’ve enjoyed the feeling a little more.
Instead, my eyes shifted back to the ingredients, going through them once more in the hope it would keep the oncoming wave of guilt at bay. But I felt it coming. Three, two, one—
“Athalia.” His voice was suddenly all serious, something soothing in the way he said my name. His thumb hooked underneath my chin to tilt it his way, touch featherlight.
It seemed he was going to say something important, something comforting, something that would keep that oncoming wave away for a while longer—perhaps until the next comment that made me intensely aware of my privilege to the point of... discomfort? He cleared his throat. “Youhaveboiled water before, right?” He tried hard to keep his lips in a tight line.
I groaned. “Yes, McCarthy. I have boiled water before.”
“And cooked pasta?” He sounded a bit more hesitant this time.
“Yes,” I confirmed again. “I have cooked pasta.”
“See!” He said like he’d struck gold. “You’re better than my sister, then.”
“Which one?”
Filling one of the pots with water, he looked over his shoulder with an amused gleam in his eyes. “All of them.”
Knowing that despite all his sisters, he seemed to be the one to help his mother cook, that he’d been the one to whip up a quick meal for them when she’d get home late, and that he knew his way around the kitchen, was... nice.
“How come?” I wondered.
McCarthy shrugged. “You didn’t think my sisters took full advantage of having a brother? A couple of years ago, they didn’t want to move out because it meant doing their own chores.”
I couldn’t help but laugh at the thought of Baby Dylan doing all his sisters’ laundry, washing their dishes, and cooking for them. McCarthy nudged my shoulder in fake offense.
“That’s not funny,” he proclaimed, despite the wide smile on his face when he dumped a teaspoon of salt into the water.
“No.” I shook my head so quickly that my vision blurred, and my smile was so wide that my cheeks began to hurt. “No, it’s not funny at all.”
*
“That’s a lot of vodka.” I sat on the counter next to the stove, my legs swinging happily in anticipation of the heavenly aroma filling the air.
“You saidhalf—”
“In that case,” I interrupted, glad my only job was giving useless commentary and driving McCarthy up the wall with it. “It’s not enough.”
His shoulders slumped, lips parting to let go of a frustrated sigh. “Is this payback for all the times I’ve been annoying?” He placed the vodka back beside the stove, then casually positioned himself between my legs. Despite my elevated state on the counter, his head still hovered above mine. “If so, I think you’re overdoing it a little.”
