her head back in Gabe’s direction. “Thanks for driving.”
White teeth flashed in the darkness of the car. “The way you were pounding the wine, I don’t think I had much choice.”
Reggie grimaced, then repeated the gesture, noting with interest how rubbery her lips felt. “Sorry,” she said again. “It’s my mom. She makes me crazy.”
“I can see why.”
“I just wish, for once, she’d acknowledge what I’ve accomplished. All she sees is that her daughter has lowered herself to cooking fattening food for other people.”
He momentarily took his eyes off the road and regarded her thoughtfully. Even in her inebriated state, she felt his gaze as though he were trailing his fingers down her body.
“I guess you didn’t get your love of cooking from her.”
“No way. Tonight’s dinner was a perfect example of what my mom served on a regular basis. I learned to love food because of Maria Detaglia.” She smiled as she remembered going over to Maria’s house after school, how amazing smells permeated the air. “Maria was my best friend in grade school.”
“Her mom cooked?”
“Her mom, her dad, her grandma, aunts, uncles, everyone. Maria’s dad, Joe, is this big, burly Italian guy, and her mom is this tiny little woman he met on his tour in Vietnam. I don’t know if you know this, but the Vietnamese have an amazing culinary tradition. By the time we were eight, Maria and I were helping her mom make Bo Luc Lac and helping her dad make Bragiole on the weekends. Eating at her house was like seeing in color after living in black and white.” She fiddled with the radio, punching several buttons until she found an alternative station she liked. “I wanted to go to culinary school right out of high school, but my mom wouldn’t hear of it. And now she gives me a hard time about my lack of professional schooling.” She shook her head. “There is no pleasing that woman,” she said almost to herself. “What about your mom? Is she a good cook?”
“She’s a great cook—she and my sisters. Probably the reason I don’t cook myself, they were always chasing me away. And my grandma—she came over from Croatia when I was twelve and lived with us until she died—she used to make Prsurate; it’s kind of like a Croatian donut.”
“You should learn to cook. I remember the first meal I cooked for myself when I went away for college. Rosemary lemon chicken with mashed potatoes.” She looked over at him, smiling softly in the darkness. “Maybe I’ll teach you to cook. Kind of like a bonus plan.”
“Maybe.”
“Trust me. Cooking a meal is a guaranteed ticket into a woman’s pants.”
He glanced over, his eyebrow raised sardonically. “I seem to do okay on my own.”
Reggie knew the heat in her cheeks was not just from the wine. “Yeah, I guess you do.”
They were silent for the rest of the ride. Reggie stared out the window, and Gabe smiled when he heard her soft snore. He didn’t know what had brought on his uncharacteristic inquisitiveness. But even though he’d vowed to keep his distance, the more time he spent with Reggie Caldwell, the more he wanted to know about her.
Meeting her mother explained a lot, especially Reggie’s drive, her seeming desperation to keep her TV hosting gig at all costs. That she loved what she did was obvious, but professional recognition was obviously vital as well. Anything to get her mother’s elusive approval.
He could relate. Ever since he’d had to retire from the Special Forces, when a bullet shattered his left femur, he’d felt the need to prove himself, to show he could make a difference even if he was no longer able to serve active duty. Unwilling to settle for a desk job, he’d moved into the private sector, eager to put his skills to use at his friend’s security company.
It had been great while it lasted. Instead of putting himself in danger ridding the world of terrorists, he spent his days installing and testing high-tech security
White teeth flashed in the darkness of the car. “The way you were pounding the wine, I don’t think I had much choice.”
Reggie grimaced, then repeated the gesture, noting with interest how rubbery her lips felt. “Sorry,” she said again. “It’s my mom. She makes me crazy.”
“I can see why.”
“I just wish, for once, she’d acknowledge what I’ve accomplished. All she sees is that her daughter has lowered herself to cooking fattening food for other people.”
He momentarily took his eyes off the road and regarded her thoughtfully. Even in her inebriated state, she felt his gaze as though he were trailing his fingers down her body.
“I guess you didn’t get your love of cooking from her.”
“No way. Tonight’s dinner was a perfect example of what my mom served on a regular basis. I learned to love food because of Maria Detaglia.” She smiled as she remembered going over to Maria’s house after school, how amazing smells permeated the air. “Maria was my best friend in grade school.”
“Her mom cooked?”
“Her mom, her dad, her grandma, aunts, uncles, everyone. Maria’s dad, Joe, is this big, burly Italian guy, and her mom is this tiny little woman he met on his tour in Vietnam. I don’t know if you know this, but the Vietnamese have an amazing culinary tradition. By the time we were eight, Maria and I were helping her mom make Bo Luc Lac and helping her dad make Bragiole on the weekends. Eating at her house was like seeing in color after living in black and white.” She fiddled with the radio, punching several buttons until she found an alternative station she liked. “I wanted to go to culinary school right out of high school, but my mom wouldn’t hear of it. And now she gives me a hard time about my lack of professional schooling.” She shook her head. “There is no pleasing that woman,” she said almost to herself. “What about your mom? Is she a good cook?”
“She’s a great cook—she and my sisters. Probably the reason I don’t cook myself, they were always chasing me away. And my grandma—she came over from Croatia when I was twelve and lived with us until she died—she used to make Prsurate; it’s kind of like a Croatian donut.”
“You should learn to cook. I remember the first meal I cooked for myself when I went away for college. Rosemary lemon chicken with mashed potatoes.” She looked over at him, smiling softly in the darkness. “Maybe I’ll teach you to cook. Kind of like a bonus plan.”
“Maybe.”
“Trust me. Cooking a meal is a guaranteed ticket into a woman’s pants.”
He glanced over, his eyebrow raised sardonically. “I seem to do okay on my own.”
Reggie knew the heat in her cheeks was not just from the wine. “Yeah, I guess you do.”
They were silent for the rest of the ride. Reggie stared out the window, and Gabe smiled when he heard her soft snore. He didn’t know what had brought on his uncharacteristic inquisitiveness. But even though he’d vowed to keep his distance, the more time he spent with Reggie Caldwell, the more he wanted to know about her.
Meeting her mother explained a lot, especially Reggie’s drive, her seeming desperation to keep her TV hosting gig at all costs. That she loved what she did was obvious, but professional recognition was obviously vital as well. Anything to get her mother’s elusive approval.
He could relate. Ever since he’d had to retire from the Special Forces, when a bullet shattered his left femur, he’d felt the need to prove himself, to show he could make a difference even if he was no longer able to serve active duty. Unwilling to settle for a desk job, he’d moved into the private sector, eager to put his skills to use at his friend’s security company.
It had been great while it lasted. Instead of putting himself in danger ridding the world of terrorists, he spent his days installing and testing high-tech security
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