Chapter 4
FOUR
DAEMON
Lost in memories of the night before, I didn't see Tyler coming until he nudged me with his shoulder. The bastard put his back into it, slamming me into the wall.
"Sheesh, Daemon, you're smiling at that two-by-four like you want to nail it," he said, then gave in to raucous laughter at his own dirty joke.
His observation snapped me out of my memories of last night. I looked down at the lumber in my hands and realized I'd been staring at it for five minutes.
"Shut up," I said, but there was no heat in it. Not as there would have been in my murky past.
"It's the catering lady, isn't it?" Tyler grinned, settling onto a nearby sawhorse. "Nadia. The one you've been chasing for six months."
"I'm not chasing anyone." The lie tasted bitter even as I said it.
"Right. And I'm not a married man who gets stupid-happy every time his wife texts him.
" Tyler crossed his arms. "Come on, man.
We've all seen you making excuses to be wherever she's working.
You volunteered to set up chairs at Lindsey's book launch, and getting you to tidy up the job site is like pulling teeth. "
It was true. I hated crap like that. But Nadia had been catering that event, and six months of polite rejections hadn't dimmed my interest one bit.
If anything, it had grown.
"So?" Tyler prompted. "Don't tell me you wore her down?"
I thought about this morning. About waking up with her in my bed, surrounded by Sofia's clutter. About the way she'd laughed when she saw the décor, then panicked when she remembered where she was.
About how she'd called it a mistake.
"Yeah," I said. "And then she ran as if she was on fire and I was gasoline."
Tyler winced. "Ouch. Sorry, man."
"She's coming to dinner tonight. At Sofia's."
His eyebrows shot up. "You're introducing her to Sofia? Man, that's serious." He went quiet for a heartbeat before adding, "Or stupid."
"It's not like that. Technically, Sofia invited her. Well, demanded to meet her after she saw Nadia leaving this morning." I ran my hand through my hair. "I didn't have a choice."
That was a lie, too. I'd had a choice. I could've warned Sofia off, told her to give Nadia space. Instead, I'd jumped at the opportunity like a drowning man grabbing a life raft.
"Sofia's cooking. Am I right?" Tyler asked with a knowing look.
"Carbonara."
"Damn. That woman could end wars with her cooking." Tyler shook his head. "If Nadia's smart, she'll at least stay for dinner. Sofia's carbonara is legendary."
He wasn't wrong about that either. Sofia had been feeding me since the day I moved into the apartment, refusing to let me eat "that garbage" from the supermarket deli. She'd taught me to appreciate proper food, the kind made with care and tradition.
The kind that reminded you family was more than blood.
"Back to work," Ethan called from across the job site. "We've got that inspection at two, and I want the framing finished before then."
I got back to work, but my mind kept drifting. To Nadia's bright green eyes. To the way she'd felt in my arms. To the fear on her face when she realized last night had meant something.
By lunchtime, I'd nearly nailed my hand to a stud. Twice.
"For fuck’s sake! Take a break," Ethan said, grabbing the nail gun from me. "Before you hurt yourself."
I sat on the tailgate of my truck, staring at my phone. Nothing from Nadia since she'd agreed to dinner. Part of me worried she'd change her mind, find an excuse to cancel.
The other part knew she'd show up. Nadia Becker wasn't the type to back down from a challenge, even when that challenge was an eighty-six-year-old Italian woman who'd doubtless interrogate her.
"You've got it bad," Cole observed, settling onto the tailgate beside me. The older man had been hanging out with the Lucky Break crew ever since his nephew, Zac, joined the team. No official role, just there when it suited him.
He'd known me long enough to have witnessed my lowest points. Defensive, angry, and convinced the world owed me something.
He'd been the one to tell me, in his blunt way, that nobody owed me shit. That if I wanted a different life, I had to build it myself.
"Yeah," I admitted. "I've got it bad."
"Is she worth it?"
I thought about that. About Nadia's laugh, her competence, the way she ran her business like a military operation. About how she'd looked at me this morning, scared but wanting.
"Yeah. She is."
"Then fight for her," Cole said. "But fight smart. A woman like that, she won't fall for grand gestures. She needs to see you show up. Day after day. Prove you're not going anywhere."
"I'm not good at that," I said. "Showing up. Being reliable."
"Bullshit." Cole's voice was sharp. "You show up for Sofia every day. You're here now. You showed up for yourself when you got out of lockup and could've gone right back to fighting. You know how to be reliable, Booth. You need to believe you're worth the effort."
His words hit harder than I expected. I'd spent three years proving I wasn't the screwup who'd ended up in jail. Three years of being the guy who showed up on time, did quality work, didn't cause drama.
But I'd never applied that effort to my personal life. Let no one close enough to require reliability beyond casual hookups.
"She thinks I'm going to hurt her," I mumbled.
"You might," Cole said, brutal in his honesty. "But you might not. The only way to find out is to try."
I spent the afternoon on autopilot, my mind already on dinner. At six-thirty, I headed back to the apartment to shower and change. Sofia's kitchen windows blazed with light.
She'd have been in full cooking mode since midafternoon. When Sofia cooked for guests, she threw herself into it with zeal. Everything timed to perfection, every dish a masterpiece.
I was pulling on clean jeans when the large, old-fashioned telephone screwed to the wall jangled, with a ring that could split my skull. I'd tried leaving it off the hook, but the warning tone was every bit as grating, and it only led to Sofia coming to see me in person.
"Yes," I said without preamble.
Sofia's response was just as no-nonsense. As far as my landlady was concerned, phone calls were for cutting to the chase. "Daemon, get over here. I need you to grate the cheese."
A second later, I was listening to dead air.
I smiled. Sofia's demands for kitchen help were her way of saying she wanted company. I'd done this a hundred times over the past three years. Grated cheese, chopped garlic, rolled out pasta dough while she told stories about the old country.
The main house smelled like heaven. Garlic and the rich, salty aroma of crisping guanciale filled the air. Sofia stood at her vintage stove, watching her large pot of water as if daring it to boil over.
"Bambino," she said without turning around. "The Pecorino. You know where it is."
I grabbed the wedge of cheese from the fridge and the grater from the drawer. Sofia was particular about her carbonara, insisting on real Pecorino Romano, not that pre-grated junk from the supermarket. The eggs sat on the counter next to a small bowl of black peppercorns.
"Perfect timing," she said, using tongs to flip the thick slices of guanciale in her cast-iron pan. The pork was crisping up, its fat rendering into liquid gold. "The water's almost ready."
I grated cheese while Sofia cracked eggs one by one over a small bowl, letting the whites fall through her fingers before dropping the yolks into her largest mixing bowl. She then whisked them with the grated Pecorino and freshly cracked black pepper until the mixture turned pale yellow.
"Now tell me about this girl," she said, not looking up from her work.
"Her name's Nadia. She runs Coogan's Catering."
"I know who she is," Sofia said, using a slotted spoon to transfer the crispy guanciale to a plate lined with paper towels.
She left the rendered fat in the pan and set it aside.
"Caterina Rosselli's granddaughter used her for her wedding last year.
Said the food was magnifico. Professional, organized, everything perfect. "
I hadn't known that. Hadn't realized Sofia kept track of the local catering scene.
"She's ex-military," I added. "Army food services."
Sofia's expression lifted, approval in her eyes. "Ah. That explains the discipline. Good. She'll need it if she's going to put up with you."
"Thanks for the vote of confidence."
"I'm serious, Daemon." She tested the water with her finger, nodded, and dumped in a generous handful of salt before adding the spaghetti.
The only concession to her advanced years was that the pasta was store-bought, though still Italian.
"You're a good boy. But you're also stubborn and scared of commitment.
A girl like that, she won't wait around while you figure yourself out. "
"I know."
"Do you?" She stirred the pasta, her movements economical and sure.
"Because I saw her this morning. I saw how she looked at you when she thought you weren't watching.
That girl's already halfway in love with you, even if she doesn't know it yet.
The question is, are you going to meet her halfway or are you going to run? "
My throat tightened. "I'm not running."
"Good." Sofia checked the pasta and deemed it not quite ready. "Now go set the table. There’s salad in the fridge, and fresh bread in the larder. Use the good plates. "
As I pulled out Sofia's wedding china, I thought about what she'd said. About Nadia being halfway in love with me. It seemed impossible. We’d spent little time together, other than stolen moments at events.
But last night hadn't been stolen. Last night had been honest in a way that still had me off balance.
"Sofia?" I asked as I arranged the plates. "Did you ever cater events? Before you retired?"
She laughed. "Cater? Bambino, I cooked for the entire church for forty years.
Weddings, baptisms, funerals, feast days.
For every important event in this town, I made the food.
" She gave the pot a stir, watching it like a hawk.
"I taught half the restaurants in Coogan's Break how to make proper Italian food.
Not this 'Italian-inspired' trash. Proper food, made the way my nonna taught me. "
"Why'd you stop?"
"Age caught up with me. These old bones don't want to stand for twelve hours anymore." She shrugged, philosophical. "But I still cook for friends. For the people I care about. For you."
An idea was forming. Something about Sofia's experience, her connections, and her authentic recipes. But before I could think it through, she was draining the pasta.
"Quick, the bowl!" she commanded.
I knew this dance. I grabbed the mixing bowl with the egg mixture and set it on the counter while Sofia, moving with surprising speed, used tongs to transfer the steaming pasta from the colander into the bowl.
She added the crispy guanciale and a splash of starchy pasta water, then handed me the tongs.
"Now you toss. Off the heat, remember. Gentle but fast."
I tossed the pasta, watching the yolks transform from liquid to a creamy sauce that coated each strand in golden luxury. The cheese melted, the pepper dispersed, and the reserved guanciale fat made everything glossy and rich.
"Bene," Sofia said, and nodded her approval when the doorbell rang.
Seven o'clock on the dot. Of course Nadia would be dead on time.
"I'll get it," Sofia said, wiping her hands on her apron.
"Sofia, wait—"
But she was already at the door, throwing it open with the enthusiasm of a much younger woman.
"Nadia! Come in, come in. You're even more beautiful than Daemon said."
I closed my eyes. Of course, Sofia would lead with that.
When I reopened them, Nadia stood inside the front doorway, holding a bottle of wine, looking both amused and nervous. She'd changed out of her monogrammed jumpsuit into dark jeans and a soft green sweater that made her eyes impossible to look away from.
Our gazes met across Sofia's cluttered living room, and something sparked between us. Recognition. Heat. Possibility.
Then Nadia took in the room, and her lips twitched. The china figurines, the lace doilies, the floral explosion. She'd thought I was exaggerating about the main house. Now she knew better.
"Thank you for inviting me," Nadia said to Sofia, though her eyes stayed on me. "Something smells amazing."
"Carbonara," Sofia said, her words firm enough to be deemed al dente. "My nonna's recipe. Come, come. We eat while it's hot. Daemon, bring the pasta!"
As Sofia ushered Nadia toward the dining room, talking a mile a minute in English and Italian, I caught Nadia's eye. She looked overwhelmed but charmed. The Sofia effect in a nutshell.
I grabbed the large bowl of pasta, its warmth seeping into my hands, and followed them to the table.
This would either be the best idea I'd ever had, or it would blow up in my face.
And given my track record, both.