the...cheese.’
* * *
She was humming again as she massacred the prosciutto.
And blow him down if it wasn’t a woeful attempt at Natalie’s signature song—the truly hideous ‘Je t’aime-ich liebe-ti amor You Darling’.
He started crushing garlic with the flat of his knife as though his life depended on it.
She was still tearing. And humming. Please tell him she didn’t have the same insane cheesy love song obsession as Natalie. Who was not going to be performing at his brother’s wedding! Once when he’d been mid-thrust, and Natalie had sung a line of that awful song, he’d choked so hard on a laugh he’d given himself a nosebleed; that evening had not ended well.
‘Done,’ Sunshine said, and looked proudly at the ripped meat in front of her.
Leo winced.
‘What do you want me to do next?’ she asked, with that damned glow that seemed to emanate from her pores.
‘Salad,’ he said, sounding as if he’d just announced a massacre.
Which it was likely to be—of the vegetable kind.
‘We’ll keep it simple,’ he said. ‘Give these lettuce leaves a wash.’
Sunshine took the lettuce leaves and ran them under the tap, her glow dimming.
‘What’s wrong?’ he asked as he took them from her.
‘Salad. It’s so...vegetarian.’
She looked so disgruntled Leo found himself wanting to laugh again. He swallowed it. ‘It’s just a side dish. And there’s meat in the pasta, remember?’
She wrinkled her nose. Oh-oh. Convoluted argument coming.
‘I’ll do it with a twist,’ he offered quickly. ‘I’ll put some salmon in it, and do a really awesome dressing that doesn’t taste remotely healthy. All right?’
Her nose unwrinkled. ‘Okay, if you go a little heavy on the salmon and a little light on the lettuce.’
He choked. ‘Am I designing that boot for you? No? Then just shut up and see if you can cut these grape tomatoes into quarters. They’re small, so be careful.’
She mumbled something derogatory about tomatoes, but made a swipe with the knife.
‘Quarter—not slice,’ Leo put in.
She nodded, wielded the knife again.
‘And not mash, for God’s sake,’ he begged.
Sunshine made an exasperated sound and tried again.
Leo turned his back—it was either that or wrench the knife from her—and concentrated on the salmon he’d packed as a failsafe, coating it in herbs, then laying it in a pan to fry.
Sunshine was onto the song about love biting you in the ass, throwing in the occasional excruciating lyric—and he wanted so badly to laugh it was almost painful.
Mid-song, however, she laughed. ‘Oops—that song is just too, too, too much, Hideous,’ she said.
Damn if he didn’t want to snatch her up and kiss her.
Instead he gave her some terse instructions on trimming the crunchy green beans to go into the salad, which she did abominably.
He put water on for the pasta, then turned back to the bench.
‘Next, we’ll—’ He stopped, hurriedly averting his eyes as Sunshine arranged the salad ingredients in a bowl. ‘We’ll just slide the salmon on top—’ shock stop as his eyes collided with the mangled contents ‘—and now I’ll get you to mix the dressing.’
He lined up a lemon, honey, seeded mustard, sugar, black pepper, and extra virgin olive oil.
Sunshine considered the ingredients with the utmost concentration. ‘So, I need to juice the lemon, right?’
‘Yes. You only need a tablespoon.’
‘How much is a tablespoon?’
Repressing the telltale tic, he opened the cutlery drawer and took out a tablespoon. ‘This is a tablespoon.’
‘Oh. How much of everything else?’
Limit reached. ‘Move out of the way. I’ll do it. I put a bottle of wine in the fridge. I think—no, I know—I need a nice big glass of it, if you can manage to pour that. Then go around to the other side of the counter, sit on that stool and watch. You’ve already thrown my kitchen rhythm off so things are woefully out of order.’
‘It seems very ordered to me.’
‘Well, it’s not.’
Sunshine shrugged, unconcerned. ‘You know, I feel like one of those contestants on your show.’
A thought too ghastly to contemplate!
Sunshine slid past him on her way to the fridge, brushing against his arm. God! God, God, God! Her brand of casual friendliness, with the kisses and the random touches, was something he was not used to. At all.
He didn’t like it.
Except that he kind of did.
* * *
Dinner resembled a physical battle: Sunshine leaning in; Leo leaning way out.
A less optimistic woman would have been daunted.
But Sunshine was almost always optimistic.
As they ate the pasta and salad they argued over assorted wedding details, from the choice of MC—‘What are you thinking to suggest anyone but yourself, Leo?’—to the need for speeches—Sunshine: yes; Leo: no!—to whether to use social media for sharing photos and videos of the function—over Leo’s dead body, apparently.
By the time the pannacotta gelato was on the table Sunshine was in ‘what the hell?’ mode. Seven weeks to go—they had to move things along.
‘So!’ she said. ‘Music!’
He went deer-in-the-headlights still. ‘Music.’
‘Yes. Music. I hear there’s no dancing, so we can scrap the DJ option.’
‘Correct.’
She pursed her lips. ‘So! I’ve located a heavy metal band. I also know a great piano accordionist—surprisingly soulful. And I’ve heard about an Irish trio. What about one of those options? Or maybe a big band—but did you know that a big band has fourteen instruments? And where would we put fourteen musicians? I mean, I know the restaurant is spacious, but—’
‘I know what you’re doing, Sunshine.’
She
