Chapter 10
CHAPTER TEN
Noa
I did everything I could not to eavesdrop, including using this time to search for Moo’s latest hiding place. As it is, the house is silent save for the noises in the kitchen and there are only so many crevices before I have to give up and circle back again.
I catch snippets of earned this and scandal and genuine passion, but it’s not enough to sway my determination not to attend the class with Stone.
I’ll go on a dating app if I have to, though Falcon Haven’s phone tree system has gone through all eligible bachelors and back when it comes to Noa-Lynn Shaw.
Most of the good men are married, gay, or moved out of town.
The ones that remain are the leftovers. Like me.
Pitied by those who’ve found happiness and grew old here.
With a dating app out of the question, I decide to beg Carly on my knees to join me, or pay her sister to do it for her.
Mrs. Stalinski will not let these reserved seats go to waste, and I hate to see her disappointed when she has such tough days to begin with.
Or maybe I can go by myself and say Carly’s going with me, then swear everyone involved to secrecy…
“Noa? Hun? You out there?”
Mrs. Stalinski’s voice reaches my ears in the den, where I think I’ve found Moo under the armchair by the fireplace.
I pull up the embroidered dust flaps, finding the two yellow beams of his reflective eyes, then make kissy faces at him. “See you soon, pal. Glad you found a safe space.”
He pissily swipes at the flap as I drop it back in place.
Instead of answering Mrs. Stalinski, I return to the kitchen, using an extreme amount of effort to keep my expression calm and blasé as I study Stone, his mother, and the after-effects of their conversation.
Did Stone convince her it was a dumb idea?
He must have. A guy like him has a million better things to do than go to a small-town date night cooking class once a week for two months while the restaurant readies for its grand opening right after Christmas.
He has employees to order around, other heads of business to intimidate, elite friends to hang out with (does he even have friends?), gorgeous women to bed, and a sick mother to care for.
No way would he want to spend his precious spare time learning the specialties of fine French dining.
“Here’s how it’s going to go.”
My brows jump at Stone’s official tone.
“It’s obvious you don’t think I’d enrich your experience at … what is this place called?”
“ C’est Trois .” Mrs. Stalinski answers with a thick French accent.
“Yes, that. You believe I’d make these cooking lessons worse for you somehow,” Stone says to me.
I don’t answer. My silence is enough of one.
Stone doesn’t react to my acknowledgment with hurt or ego-wounded anger. No, he rounds to the side of the fridge, swipes the apron off the hook, and throws it over his head.
Stone fists his hands and turns, his face displaying nothing but determination. Get Your Fat Pants Ready splays across the front of the cream fabric in cursive font.
“Then I’ll prove it to you,” he says.
I look at Mrs. Stalinski. Her perfect posture doesn’t give me any clue as to what’s happening. I go back to Stone. “What are you doing?”
“I’m cooking dinner,” he answers, like it’s obvious. “If it’s terrible, I won’t be your weekly date. No argument, not from me or Ma. Right, Ma?”
Mrs. Stalinski pushes out her lower lip. “I suppose.”
“But if I do cook something delicious, you let me do this with you. Standard negotiation at its best.”
I rub at my cuticles, suddenly desperate to pick at them. “Why would you even want to do this?”
Stone’s confident expression hardens. “Consider it mutually beneficial. You get fabulous lessons from a Parisian chef, and I get some redemption in the way of improving my reputation for my current clients, who are less than happy with me right now.”
Here is the moment it all makes sense. Stone would never do something purely for someone else.
There has to be a benefit in it for him.
Good to know he hasn’t changed. His selfish ways remain his most prominent quality.
The reminder shouldn’t be surprising, or cause a hollow ping in my chest, yet it does.
It always has, no matter how many times he reminds me.
No matter how many times I’m disappointed, Stone is the only man who keeps me wishing for more.
All such stupid wishes. Wasn’t I just going through the ways I could avoid him? Why is it suddenly so important that he acknowledges my importance to his life?
“I see,” I respond tightly.
“Is that a yes?” Stone’s brow arches in tandem with one side of his mouth.
I’m about to say no, that my dream shouldn’t be reduced to an impulsive bet, but then I catch Mrs. Stalinski’s face as she watches her son.
There’s color to her cheeks, a flush of excitement.
“I hope you make it difficult for him, Noa,” she says. Then she laughs, a full-on, pre-cancer laugh. “But I still want him to win.”
The vision of Mrs. Stalinski’s pure joy stays at the backs of my eyes as I turn to Stone. “You’re on.”
Stone takes a spatula and smacks it on his open palm. “This is a spatula. I know that now.”
Oh, I have this in the bag .
I cross my arms over my chest, nodding with a simpering smile. “Yes. Good job.”
Stone ignores my patronizing tone. “What were you making before the thought of having me as a partner made you run from the room?”
I almost lie. It’s tempting to give him a complicated recipe guaranteeing failure, like the chicken Milanese I mentioned.
The Stone I remember couldn’t toast bread without burning the center, then smearing butter all over it to cover up his mistakes.
That analogy also applies to his personality, charming in all the right ways when he does the worst to a person.
But tossing such a difficult recipe his way wouldn’t be fair or enjoyable to watch.
As much as this new, robotic attitude absent of his once fiery personality grates on me, I want a fair win with no openings for him to point out that I cheated or stacked the odds against him.
I’m still not sure why joining me at the restaurant is so important to him, but that’s probably not the point anymore.
Stone likes to win. Always has.
But so do I.
“Spaghetti Bolognese,” I say to him, joining Mrs. Stalinski on the stool beside her.
Stone purses his lips. I can practically see the wheels in his complicated mind turning.
I add, “With homemade meat sauce. Nothing from the jar.”
Mrs. Stalinski smacks the countertop. “Now we’re talking.”
Stone nods. “Easy.” He stares down at the sizzling pan of onions and garlic. “And you’ve already started my mis en place. ”
I roll my eyes at his blatant use of knowledge he’s likely gained from the type of restaurants I can only dream of enjoying.
To my surprise, Stone turns down the heat under the pan, then goes to the pantry to sift around. After reappearing with an arm full of canned and fresh tomatoes, some dried herbs, and brown sugar, I fear I misjudged him.
He finishes his foraging by going into the fridge and pulling out the ground beef.
“Watch closely, because you’re really about to enjoy this, Lavender,” Stone says as he goes to the sink to wash the tomatoes, then to the cutting board to chop them.
Shit, he’s actually prepping.
“Living on my own in LA and becoming so busy,” he continues, “I sometimes forget to eat. But there’s a certain home-cooked meal I remember around midnight.
I’d call Ma and she would tell me how to make a delicious meat sauce to put over pasta or stuff in peppers or put in a hoagie.
An easy sauce that I could freeze and use whenever I need.
You understand.” He ends me with rare a glint to his eye.
I fight against a glower. “How great for you.”
“It is.” Stone flashes his teeth at me before spinning and sliding the ground beef into the pan. “It took me many tries to get right. But once I did…” He picks up the wooden spoon and stirs, sending me a dimpled, closed-mouthed smile over his shoulder. “Magic.”
I turn to Mrs. Stalinski. “You were perfectly aware of this, weren’t you?”
With the most innocent expression I’ve ever seen, she blinks at me and shrugs.
“Traitor,” I mutter, then jolt as something clanks on the counter in front of me.
Stone bends to my level after setting down a healthy glass of red wine.
“Here. You’re going to need this,” he says.
My tongue feels stuck to the roof of my mouth. I reach for it and take a nice, long glug.
Stone’s spaghetti Bolognese ends up somewhat dry, over-salted, and stupidly delicious.
It takes all self-control not to lick the plate clean as the three of us sit at the breakfast bar and finish our meal.
To Mrs. Stalinski’s credit, she keeps her cat-got-the-canary expression to a minimum as she picks at her food and converses with Stone.
Stone is another story, asking after every bite, “It’s delicious, isn’t it?”
I’m ready to toss my licked-clean spoon at him to shut him up when Mrs. Stalinski lets out a small moan.
It was tiny, not meant for our ears, but being with her all these months has made me attuned to every wince and whimper.
“Mrs. Stalinski?” I ask.
Stone pushes away from his third helping. He stands and puts a hand on her lower back.
Mrs. Stalinski waves us both off. “Don’t fuss, you two. I need some rest is all. Your little pissing contest took the last of my energy.”
“Rigged pissing contest,” I add, but I also slide off my stool with concern.
“I’m fine, I’m fine,” Mrs. Stalinski insists.
She moves to set her feet on the floor, then buckles. If it weren’t for Stone, she would have fallen. He catches her in his arms.
“Guess I had too much to drink,” she jokes. Mrs. Stalinski maybe had two sips of wine.
“You’re not making it up the stairs,” Stone says at the same time I jump into action and say, “It’s time for your nighttime medication. That should help.”
“I told you both—I’m fine .”