She shakes her head. “I want to complain about your ego, but…not while I’m eating this.” She takes another bite and closes her eyes, savoring it. “This is seriously gourmet. I doubt this was your first time making it.” She peers at me. “Or was it?”
“Nah, I’ve made it before. Do it from scratch each time.”
“When do you have the time? You’re always so busy.”
“At night, mostly, when I can’t fall asleep. I go to the kitchen and make pizza or pasta.”
“You make pasta from scratch too?”
I laugh. “I don’t make the noodles. And sometimes, you know, I just bake cookies if I’m feeling lazy. Then eat ‘em while I watch a movie.”
“Cookies, huh?” She looks at me, her eyes soft. “Comfort food?”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because I crave them from time to time too, except I never make them myself.”
“Why not?”
“They’re Mom’s cookies. If I made them, they wouldn’t be the same.” A faraway look enters her eyes for a moment, then clears. “I can’t see Geraldine baking. So I can see you making your own.”
She’s right. Mom’s never cooked. I don’t think she knows how to boil water, really. If there’s ever an apocalypse, she’ll be the first one dead from sheer inability to take care of her most basic needs.
I bite into my pizza and take a moment to collect myself. “Grandpa used to cook for us when we spent summers with him. So.” I shrug. Grandpa taught me because I hung out in the kitchen, wanting to spend every second with him. As I became better, he shared more of his recipes with me, and I loved that I had that part of him all to myself. I was like a puppy back then, starved for affection. “I like cooking,” I say. “It’s methodical and simple. I have to follow a recipe, but it’s not always set in stone. I can experiment a little, too.”
She takes another big slice and looks out over the ocean. “I’m glad you brought me here.”
“Where did you think the car was taking you?”
“I don’t know. Éternité?”
Éternité’s one of Mark’s restaurants, and it’s so saccharine romantic, it’s painful. He dedicated it to his fiancée Hilary. “Have you ever been there?” I ask.
She shakes her head. “No…but I like this better. It’s relaxing. Just you and me. I know we’re putting on a show, but I feel like it isn’t like that when we’re out here.” Sudden flush heats her face. “Not, you know, that I’m forgetting the reason that we’re doing it or anything.”
I smile. “Don’t worry.”
I don’t speak much afterward. It gives me an odd ache in my heart to know I’m playing a role, and I don’t even know why. I play parts all the time. Why so morose about this one?
It might be because I’m starting to realize I may want more from my life than just one role after another. It’s my damn cousins’ fault. I go out of the country for a while on a project, and when I come back every one of them—except Dane, who’s too cold for anybody to want to marry—is settling down. Even Vanessa’s married…and already pregnant! And the thing is, they look happy. Content. The whole lot of ‘em. Mark looked like he was about to explode with joy at the wedding. Who would’ve thought? He wasn’t as bad a player as I am, but he was pretty bad. Never dated anybody for more than three months and was plenty satisfied with that lifestyle.
I shake my head. It isn’t a good idea to think about stuff like that. I’ll never find anybody to share my life with, and I’m not cut out to be the kind of man women deserved for their happy endings. Things work out in movies because the ending’s scripted. In real life, shit gets messy.
By the time we’re done with our pizza, the apple pie’s ready. When I bring it out with extra cold vanilla ice cream, Paige shakes her head. “You bake, too?”
I laugh. “No. I mean, I can handle pizza dough, but not pies. I had to bribe Jane.”
“Jane?”
“My cousin Iain’s fiancée. She’s a personal chef.” And generally busy. But she’s friendly, down to earth and as sweet and soft as her signature apple pie. I asked her prettily, and she made one for me, instructing me to bake it for exactly an hour before serving, so that it’d taste fresh when we eat.
Paige pats her belly. “I’m stuffed.”
“You have to try at least one bite,” I say, giving her a slice. “It’s the best apple pie I’ve ever had.”
Licking her lips, she eyes the piping hot dessert on her plate. “It does look good. Okay, just one bite.”
She forks the smallest portion she can manage and puts it in her mouth along with a bit of vanilla ice cream. Her eyes flutter close, and I can’t help but smile as I take a big bite. The hot gooey apple chunks and perfect crust and cold ice cream blend together. It’s pure food orgasm.