The Tessa Randolph Collection, Books 1-3 by Paula Lester (best ereader for comics .txt) 📗

After she’d redone the noodles—luckily she had another box, and this time she stood right in front of the stove and watched it like a hawk—Tessa had to rush to get herself changed and ready, barely finishing applying her mascara before she heard a knock at the door.

For as much as her nerves were jittering over the state of her apartment and whether dinner would be edible, Tessa felt a thrill of anticipation about having another date with Silas. They'd had such a good time going out in the evenings after her work conference presentations in Florida. But, somehow, having him over to her apartment for a nice, intimate dinner felt much more as though they were dating and less like were just meeting up as friends.

As she hurried out of the bedroom, Tessa found Pepper sitting just inside the doorway with her head tilted.

“I know that look," Tessa hissed. "You stay out of sight and don't make trouble. If you do that—if and only if you do that—I’ll give you half a can of cat food after Silas leaves."

For good measure, Tessa closed the bedroom door with the cat inside. Maybe Silas wouldn't notice the food bowls and Tessa could continue to get away with having a pet in the apartment, even though she wasn't supposed to.

She didn't have to fake the smile on her face when she opened the door. Tessa was genuinely glad to welcome Silas in. "You look handsome."

He waved his hands up and down his own body with a flick of the wrists. "This old thing?" He shrugged. “It's basically my only nice outfit, so it doesn't get worn too often.”

“Jeans and a plaid flannel shirt are your only nice outfit?” Tessa stepped to the side so Silas could enter.

“I live in Michigan—what do you expect my nice clothes to look like?”

Tessa chuckled. “I suppose plaid and denim are just fine. This place is a little bit messy. Sorry about that."

She wasn't kidding either. She’d missed a few things. There were still magazines strewn across the coffee table, a few dirty dishes she hadn’t gotten to piled on the kitchen counter, and a layer of dust covering the TV shelf in the living room. But that was fine with her. After all, she really didn't want to offer up a complete facade of what her life was like.

But he didn't need to know that a half-hour earlier, virtually every piece of clothing she owned had littered the place from one end to the other.

"Looks good to me," he said, “and smells even better." He sniffed the air, reminding her of a bloodhound. "Is that spaghetti and . . . vanilla?”

Tessa grinned and waved a hand. "The vanilla isn’t edible. It’s just a candle. I did make spaghetti and—oh no!" She darted for the kitchen, remembering she’d shoved the garlic bread into the oven before she went to put on her makeup.

She grabbed hot mitts and opened the oven door, expecting to again see black smoke billowing in her kitchen. She was pleasantly surprised. Golden brown bread, bubbling away, greeted her with the heavenly smell of garlic and butter. With a sigh of relief, she pulled out the pan and set it on the empty stove burners.

"That looks great." Silas leaned on the doorjamb. "I love Italian."

“Well, unless you love Americanized Italian, you’re out of luck. Because we’re dining on Italian-American, mostly out of a jar, tonight.”

He dipped his head, dimples popping in his cheeks. “American-Italian out of a jar is my favorite kind of Italian. I mean, really, is there another way?"

She smirked, thinking of her mother. Cheryl cooked everything from scratch and was a master chef in the kitchen. Those genes hadn’t passed down to her. She’d gotten her father’s cooking skills. Alone one weekend, with her mother gone to a conference—which Tessa now realized was the reaper conference like she’d just attended—her father had burnt a record number of grilled cheese sandwiches before giving up and ordering pizza.

“Do you need a hand with anything?” Silas asked.

“Yeah, grab a plate out of there." She gestured at a cupboard over her head. “And here’s a towel. You can make sure the bread stays warm while I drain the noodles."

As soon as the words were out of Tessa’s mouth, she realized she’d made a horrible mistake. She'd taken the noodles off the heat but left them in the hot water while she went to change her clothes.

With a wince, she peered into the pot. They looked all right. Maybe everything would be fine. At the very least, they weren’t a pile of stinky ash like the pot she’d shoved under the sink in hopes the stench wouldn’t escape.

When she got to the tiny dining room table just outside the kitchen with the drained noodles and sauce, she found that Silas had not only taken care of the garlic bread, but he’d also found plates, silverware, and cups and set two places.

“Oh! That reminds me.” She set down the food, turned on her heel, and went back into the kitchen to retrieve the bottle of Merlot she’d opened and left to breathe a while earlier. For half a second, she felt proud for orchestrating a lovely meal.

The pride only lasted a few more minutes because when Tessa bit into her pasta, it was mushy and all stuck together. “Oh, no. I overcooked the noodles.”

But Silas was munching away. Around a bite, he said, “I think it’s awesome. It tastes just like my mom’s spaghetti. With us kids always around, she must've overdone the noodles too. Normally, I don't like anybody else's spaghetti. I guess most people cook the noodles al dente. Not my style.”

She pursed her lips and studied his face. Was he for real or just trying to make her feel better?

With a tiny shrug, Tessa decided she didn't care. She chose to believe Silas liked the meal, and she dug in, determined to enjoy it too, even though it was a bit—well, actually