Free Pasta Imperfect by Maddy Hunter Page A

with you, the roommate seemed a hell of a lot more interested in working on her contest entry than in hearing about the details of the accident. She could hardly wait for us to leave.”
    “I have it on good authority that contests are a really big deal among aspiring romance novelists.”
    He flashed me a crooked smile. “Romance novels. My kid sister devoured them when we were growing up. Two a day when she could get her hands on them, which wasn’t easy considering the nearest bookstores didn’t always carry English translations.”
    I eyed him curiously. “Where exactly did you grow up?”
    “Everywhere. My dad was in the foreign service, so we moved around a lot. It was his goal to ensure that our roots never grew too deeply in any one spot, and he succeeded admirably.” He threw me a long look. “That must sound pretty dysfunctional to someone who was born and bred in Iowa.”
    Only one way he could have known that. “You read my travel information sheet.”
    “One of the perks of the job. Actually, I’m required to read all of them. And you know what always strikes me? How you can rarely guess from the look of a person what line of work they’re in. Take the girl with the spiked hair and the screwdriver in her nose. Amanda Morning. She looks like she belongs in leather chaps on a Harley. Right?”
    I nodded, though I suspected she’d need to have a helmet custom made to clear the metal in her nostrils.
    “She teaches acrobatic ballet to five-year-olds.”
    “You’re kidding.”
    He shook his head. “She probably wears a tutu and toe shoes to work. Cassandra Trzebiatowski? Classic beauty. Blond-haired. Blue-eyed. You saw the hot outfit she was wearing tonight. That clingy denim thing with the bra straps?”
    I moaned. I knew that dress would have turned heads.
    “Cassandra looked like the ballet dancer, but she was a tenth-grade physics teacher. And really focused. She wrote on her info sheet that she’d completed two romances and was beginning work on a third. A physics teacher. I never had physics teachers who looked like that when I was in school. Did you?”
    “I had nuns.” I watched him flex his shoulder and slide his hand beneath the placket of his shirt to massage an obvious ache — a casual gesture that struck me as oddly mesmerizing. I gave myself a mental slap. “Should you be telling me all this?”
    “It’s not confidential. The only confidential information on the Landmark travel form is the personal medical history, and you’ll never pry those details out of me.” He winked in a way that dimpled his cheek on one side.
    “How do you remember everyone’s name? I mean, I know name tags help, but it’s only been two days, and you sound as if you have everyone’s name memorized.”
    “Photographic memory. It was my biggest selling point when I applied for the job.” He bobbed his head toward me. “What was yours?”
    Mine? Hunh. No one had ever asked me that before. “I think it was that…I was available.”
    “Oh, come on.” He laughed. “Someone hired you because you’re good with people. You take initiative. You smile a lot.”
    He was obviously making a personal judgment here because I hadn’t written any of that on my travel form.
    “And you’re kind enough to lend an ear when someone needs to talk.” His eyes traveled to my mouth, where they lingered for a moment too long. “Thanks, Em.” His voice was soft, his words slow. “I appreciate it.”
    He boosted himself to his feet. I rose at the same time, feeling a little emotionally awkward, and walked him to the door. “If your sister is such a romance fan, you should have Gillian and Marla sign their books for her,” I said in full escort mode. “She’d probably be thrilled.”
    He paused on the threshold, his voice suddenly strained. “I wish I could. She was killed in an accident ten years ago. On her honeymoon. The biggest romantic adventure of her life gone miserably awry.” He cleared the gravel