Chapter 6
Taylor wasn’t going to make the mistake again.
The next morning, he sent Rocco a text. Some of us single folks are getting together for Thanksgiving at Rudolph’s.
Potluck dinner. They’re providing the turkey and mashed potatoes and gravy.
If you’re at a loose end, you’re free to come with me.
Like a date. Or not, if you don’t want to call it that.
Rocco had texted back almost immediately.
That would be great. I was not looking forward to crashing Rebecca’s mom’s dinner.
If you have plans already . . . Taylor hoped that he’d say that no, he really hadn’t wanted to go to Rebecca’s mom’s dinner.
No. Please. You’re saving me. Really. Her mom doesn’t get that I’m really not interested in her younger sister.
Ouch. Taylor chuckled out loud, in spite of himself, leaning back in his chair and ignoring the part of his brain that kept screaming that this was exactly why he’d not texted Rocco after their date.
Because he’d enjoyed him way too much, and he couldn’t goat cheese out of this now.
But that didn’t change that it had been a little shitty to not call or text. He should’ve, just to make sure they were still on, and to confirm when their next date was.
LOL. Well, maybe she’ll believe you now. I’ll swing by Jolly Java and pick you up around 1ish. Taylor didn’t say it wasn’t a date, or that it was. Frankly at this point, they could get there together and leave together, and the whole town would naturally assume this was just another date.
Sounds good. It’s a potluck?
Yep. Any side dish.
What are you bringing? Rocco wanted to know.
That’s a really good question. Not sure yet. Maybe a salad. I can do a salad. Taylor was never going to be a great cook. Or even a passable one. But at least he could buy lettuce at the store and chop vegetables.
Hey, if we’re coming together, we could always bring just one dish—I’m going to make a big lasagna, and that should be good enough. Or you could always throw some bagged salad in a bowl?
How about both? And how about I help you?
Taylor didn’t know why he’d suggested it—okay, lie, he knew exactly why he’d suggested it. Because when Rocco had walked in last night, he’d realized just how miserable he’d been making himself by not talking to him.
Rocco could be a friend. He could keep him in the friend zone . . . right?
And friends could make lasagna together.
You’d want to do that?
Of course. You’re not a burden to hang out with. The opposite, actually.
Maybe that was being a little too truthful, but after how upset Rocco had looked the other day, he wasn’t going to hide the way he felt.
Okay, he mostly wasn’t going to hide how he felt.
And if he could fit those feelings into a friendly, platonic-shaped box, that would be even better.
Ditto. Come over about eleven, then.
See you then.
Taylor tossed his phone onto his desk as the mayor walked in.
“Hey,” Mona said. “You’re smiling pretty big these days.”
He had not told her the truth about his burgeoning relationship with Rocco—though he’d assumed she’d guessed it wasn’t one hundred percent legit—but then if she did believe that, why would she be looking so thrilled now?
It’s because you’re being way too fucking convincing.
“Yeah,” Taylor said.
She shot him a conspiratorial look. “When I was throwing you at Heath Kelly, you could have just said you had your eye on Rocco Moretti.”
“At that point, I didn’t know if he’d want me to have an eye on him,” Taylor said.
“Oh come on, you’re a catch. You might pretend you’re not, but you are. It’s good to see some of your reserve melting. You’ve been locked up tight since you came to town.”
Had he? Taylor supposed that was true. Right before he’d taken the job in Christmas Falls—a job he’d wanted, desperately, but almost hadn’t gotten after all—he’d broken up with Michael.
Or rather Michael had broken up with him.
Between his mom and Michael, maybe he had been a little self-contained. But that was four years ago, now. A guy could change, right?
Surely, he had changed.
Mona smiled at him. “Also,” she added, “I can’t stay, but I want to say, Roger Knight stopped by yesterday, and said he appreciated how much of an effort you’re making to be part of this year’s festival.
I reminded him that you’re always part of it, but usually more behind the scenes, shying away from public recognition and he sounded surprised. ”
“You know I’m not always comfortable trumpeting my projects to the skies,” Taylor said.
“I know, but you’ve got to tell people or else they don’t know what you’ve been doing. And it’s a lot of good stuff, Taylor. Better than anything Steve Mills has been up to.”
“He’s done jack shit except gladhand and run his candidacy like a freaking election,” Taylor muttered.
“Exactly,” Mona said, with an approving nod. “He’ll expose himself.”
“Hopefully not literally,” Taylor said, deadpan.
Mona cackled. “God, I really, really hope not. That’s a mess we don’t need. We’ve already got this Secret Santa. I can’t walk down the street or stop by the grocery or the hardware store without getting a ton of questions about it. You get anywhere on revealing the person behind this?”
“No, and I don’t think we should dig into it anymore,” Taylor said. “It’s great stuff, for the people of this town and for this town. Let it lie.”
“Alright.” Mona sighed. “I trust your take on this. You’re good at this.”
“So are you, Madam Mayor,” Taylor said with a grin.
“If you’re free for Thanksgiving, you know you’re always welcome at my house,” Mona said.
Taylor knew if he even remotely revealed he’d have been alone, he’d have a half dozen invitations to dinner. But he’d been instrumental in putting together this Thanksgiving event for singles two years ago, and he wasn’t about to miss it, even for Mona’s famous stuffing.
“You know I always go to Mik’s single mingle Thanksgiving,” Taylor said.
“You mean your single mingle Thanksgiving,” Mona reminded him gently. “Mik might host it, but it was your idea, and it’s your execution. You bringing Rocco?”
“Yeah,” Taylor said. Suddenly awkward at the idea of talking about him with his boss. Not because he was ashamed of the guy, but because he was ashamed of what it really was.
“Good.” Mona stood. “I’m going to go with your gut on this Secret Santa thing. Not that we couldn’t have dug into it more, but that we’re going to choose not to.”
Taylor nodded. “Have a good Thanksgiving.”
“You too, Taylor.” Her wink right before she ducked out of his office told him everything he needed to know about what her assumptions were.
The same as the rest of the town’s.
There was snow on the ground—the first significant snowfall of the year—when Taylor knocked on the Jolly Java door. Worried that maybe Rocco wouldn’t hear him, in the back kitchen, he pulled out his phone and sent a text, too.
But before it even sent, Rocco was there, opening the door, shivering, even though he wore a beautiful burnt amber sweater and jeans, looking totally cozy and also like he’d just stepped off a runway in Paris.
“Hey,” Rocco said, “just on time.”
“That’s me. Prompt.” God, I am so bad at this still.
But Rocco laughed, like he was actually charming. “Come on, let’s go to the back. I’d ask if you want a coffee, but you’re a heathen who doesn’t drink it.”
“Someday maybe you’ll have to attempt a conversion,” Taylor suggested, even though he couldn’t imagine changing his mind. But his suggestion made Rocco smile brighter, and that was all he cared about.
Rocco pushed open the swinging door to the kitchen and Taylor followed behind him. He stopped, taking in the rigidly organized system Rocco had spread across the long stainless steel counter.
“Lasagna isn’t just a dish, it’s a way of life,” Rocco teased, gesturing towards the different stations. “You can make it without a plan, but then it’s just chaos.”
“What can I do to help?” He set down his bag of lettuce and already-chopped veggies onto the smaller counter next to the bank of very professional ovens he was fairly sure hadn’t been here before Rocco had purchased Jolly Java.
“I’m just doing assembly, then we bake it,” Rocco said. “You can keep me company.”
“I meant to help,” Taylor said, feeling bad that Rocco had made all these different parts.
And there were a lot of parts. There was a white sauce, speckled with something green and herbaceous; mountains of shredded cheese, not from a bag; and three sheet pans full of what looked like roasted vegetables.
Right next to where Rocco situated himself was a stack of pasta sheets, not the box kind that Taylor would normally assume anyone would use, and an enormous tinfoil pan.
“You’re definitely gonna help,” Rocco promised.
He watched as Rocco pulled on a pair of gloves and picked up the pasta sheets, carefully layering them into the pan.
“What kind of lasagna is this? It’s not the normal kind, that’s for sure,” Taylor said.
Rocco shot him a teasing look full of heat. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to terrify anyone with goat cheese again. It’s just a roasted vegetable lasagna, and for those who missed their pumpkin spice, I threw some butternut squash in.”
“Ah, well, it looks and smells amazing,” Taylor said.
Rocco shrugged. “You haven’t even started smelling it yet.”
He moved onto the big batch of white sauce, ladling it onto the pasta sheets with an expert motion, like he’d done this hundreds of times before.
“You said your parents own a restaurant?”
“Yeah,” Rocco said. “It’s a great place, tucked away down a side street in San Francisco.
I miss it, sometimes—we were always open for Thanksgiving, and we’d serve a version of this—but I’m glad I went out on my own.
I didn’t want to only work on the line for the next twenty years. That’s not my idea of fun.”
“So you’ve done this before.”
Rocco laughed. “Hundreds of times. You’re not a good Italian boy if you can’t make a killer lasagna.”