Mateo glances up at me, and I want to be friendly and say hi, but I also don’t want to make Vince sulk. I settle for a warm smile at him behind Vince’s head, then make my way to the kitchen.
When I return to the table, I take my usual spot at Vince’s right, with Mateo on my right, at the head of the table. I wonder why we never switched spots, since Vince obviously doesn’t enjoy sitting so near him. It’s not like he ever said we couldn’t.
I guess if I’m going to keep being his Sunday server though, it makes sense to keep us all together.
“I made that list,” I tell Mateo, because it just popped into my head. “Started it, anyway. It’s not done, but I expect it will be by the time I get home from school.”
He gives a nod of approval, picking up his coffee cup. “Good, I’ll order them right away.”
“What list?” Vince inquires.
“Oh, books for the library,” I say, placing a hand on his thigh and smiling. “I had some recommendations.”
This time, my leg squeeze move seems to appease him, because he accepts this explanation without getting irritable. Score.
Newly confident I can make this work and get along with everyone, I start chowing down on my oatmeal with strawberries.
“Do you work tonight?” Vince asks.
“I do.”
“I’ll give you a ride. That guy there again today?”
“I have no idea,” I state calmly.
This catches Mateo’s interest. “What guy?”
“Nobody. Mark—the baker. He was training me last week.”
“Ah,” he says with a nod. “Nice?”
“Yes, he’s very nice. A good trainer, too.”
Vince finishes his food first, since he started before me. After he drops it off in the kitchen, he comes back, playing with his key. “I’ll be in the car.”
“I’m almost done,” I tell him, shoveling a bigger bite on my spoon.
I finish the rest in record time and hustle to clean off the dishes. Since Vince isn’t here, I offer Mateo a smile a little more freely. “Have a good day.”
He’s reading the newspaper at this point, but he folds it aside to offer back a smile. “You too, Mia.”
—
“Now that is a perfect cookie. I can just resign, they don’t need me here anymore.”
Laughing as I inspect the smudgey mess of a cookie, I say, “Shut up.”
Holding his hands up in defense, he says, “No, I’m serious! Watch.” Grabbing the cookie, he takes a bite, then rolls his eyes back in exaggerated ecstasy. “Oh, my God,” he says, mouth full of cookie.
I snort, wadding up the paper towel by my hand and throwing it at his stomach. “I quit. You can design the cookies by yourself, I’m not helping you anymore.”
Grinning as he drops the cookie into the nearby trash can, he says, “I think that’s probably for the best. You just sit there and look pretty; I’m gonna do all the manly work.”
I roll my eyes and make a gagging face.
He still smiles, outlining and then flooding his cookie in a way I just can’t manage. “Sorry, am I giving you flashbacks of your home life?”
I take a seat on the stool next to his work table. “What home life?”
“Your whole mob wife deal,” he says, flashing a playful look my way. “From what I hear, they’re very…”
“Traditional?” I offer.
“I was gonna say sexist, but sure, we’ll go with that.” He switches icing bags. “Do you at least get to hear any juicy tidbits?”
“Juicy tidbits? No, I’m not in on any of that. Whatever they do outside of the home, I don’t know. My job is to serve the guys at dinner and wear a pretty dress.”
“Aw, come on. I’m sure you get something more than that. I love The Godfather. We should meet for coffee one day and you can dish.”
“There’s really nothing to dish. And I’m 100% sure Vince wouldn’t let me get coffee with you.”
His eyebrows rise, but he at least keeps watching the cookie instead of me. “Let you? Is he your boyfriend or your master?”
“There’s not as big a difference as you might think,” I say lightly.
“Ew,” he says.
I don’t disagree, but like Cherie said, it doesn’t really serve me to think about that. “It is what it is. What about you, do you have a lucky lady to call your own?”
That time he cuts me a smirk. “Nope, no one around to forbid me from getting coffee with a friend.”
I roll my eyes. “It’s not like that. He wasn’t… controlling when we dated, but I’m starting to notice it a lot more now that we’re living together.”
“I’m pretty sure that’s how it always works,” he says, levelly. “How long did you even date the guy before you moved in with him?”
“I reserve the right to avoid answering that question,” I state.
“Not long enough, I take it?”
“It wasn’t my choice.”
Mark frowns, grabbing a new tray of empty cookies. “Moving in with your boyfriend wasn’t your choice?”