Total pages in book: 38
Estimated words: 36206 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 181(@200wpm)___ 145(@250wpm)___ 121(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 36206 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 181(@200wpm)___ 145(@250wpm)___ 121(@300wpm)
“Strazzate,” he says at the same time as I try to pronounce the Italian word and butcher it.
“Strazzate,” I repeat, trying to trill the ‘r’ and give the word the same melodic lilt that he gave it. “It sounds delicious.”
The words catch in my throat as I glance at him. He's leaning over me now, hands planted on the counter top on either side of me, head close to mine. The cookbook is sandwiched between us, pressing against my boobs. “If you make me strazzate,” he murmurs into my ear while the hair on my neck rises, “I will marry you.”
Oh dear. My hand trembles and there's a loud rip. “Oh dear,” I say out loud. I’ve completely torn the recipe out of the book. RIP, page forty-three. I turn slowly and he moves back to give me space—but not much. “I guess I'll have to make it now.” I wave the torn scrap of the recipe between us like a white flag of surrender.
Royal’s looking at me like I'm a cookie he wants to take a bite out of. “Mia zia told me if I ever found a woman who is beautiful and bakes strazzate, I should make her my wife.”
I scrunch my nose. “That’s not a very high criterion, is it?”
He chuckles. “It is harder to find such a woman than you might think.”
“Well, I'm sure you'll find someone,” I chirp. “It is specific… you could put it on your dating profile.”
Royal shakes his head and gently tugs the recipe out of my hand.
“You make these, Leah, I’ll make you my wife.”
Oh, I do like my name on his tongue.
“Shouldn't be hard,” I whisper.
His chuckle is rich and dark. My toes curl.
“It’ll be easy. I just need chocolate, almonds…” his dark head bowed close to mine.
“Do you have Strega?” he asks softly.
“No, but I could order it…”
“I will have some sent to you.” He lifts my hand and presses a kiss to it. “Until tomorrow, principessa.”
He sweeps out from behind the counter. My legs are so weak, one wobble, and I’d be on the floor with the fallen cups.
On his way out, he pauses to remove something from his sleek black wallet and slot it into the tip jar.
Then he’s gone, leaving me to shuffle through the sea of white cups back to the counter.
He left a hundred in the tip jar.
2
The next morning, I blow in with a wintry wind before five a.m. There’s a bottle of Strega on the countertop, sitting on the ripped scrap of paper that holds the recipe.
“Mr. Rossi?” I call. “Did you leave this here?”
“No, I thought you left it.” He sidles up to Big Bernadette, as I have named the espresso maker, inspired by Royal’s she’s a woman, no? comment. “You got the machine working!”
“Um, sorta.” With a lot of help from a gorgeous customer.
“Soon, we will be printing money! And look,” he holds up the tip jar, “one hundred seventeen dollars, for your college fund.” He beams before disappearing into the back.
“Yay.” I pick the scrap of paper up. “Strazzate.” I try the word out, mimicking Royal’s lilting pronunciation.
If you make me strazzate, Royal said, I will marry you.
I drop the card with a shiver. Somehow, Royal got me a bottle of Strega for the authentic recipe. Either that, or little Italian fairies delivered it.
I bet I’ll get a Royal visit later today. I could make the cookies… and text him? His card is burning a hole in my pocket, but after the morning rush, I have my college class. If I text him, he’ll know when to come.
That’s the plan then. I tuck Royal’s business card back in my pocket where it will keep my phone company until the appointed time. My heart is skipping as I head back to start on a batch of cinnamon rolls.
Royal
The little baker rushes around the small space behind the counter, making espresso and filling orders. Every so often, I think she’s going to finally look up and see me watching her through the front windows, but she never does. She’s totally focused on the customer in front of her, giving them one hundred percent of her generous smile.
“You’re watching her again,” Enzo mutters at my back. “It’s been every week for a year. She doesn’t even know it.”
“Does the prey know the hunter?” I murmur absently. I didn’t expect Leah to recognize me yesterday. It had been a year since I last entered her place of work, after all.
Enzo shakes his head. “Enough already.”
When it comes to Leah, I’ll never get enough. She got my gift, but she hasn’t called or texted. Maybe she’s too busy.
Maybe’s she’s afraid.
Enzo takes my silence to mean he can keep blabbing. “Just ask her out. You know she’ll say yes.” He lights a cigarette.
My fingers itch for a cigarette of my own, but I’ve quit. New year, new me. My aunt looked me in the eye as she dealt the cards. This is the year you claim it all.