Free The Marriage Trap by Jennifer Probst Page A

containers of powdered things were neatly lined up. Definitely not like that crazy show Iron Chef with all the chaos and running around to prepare a meal.
    Maggie always believed cooking was done for survival—not pleasure. Since she earned lots of money, she spent most of it on take-out. She frowned and tried to feign enthusiasm for the task ahead. God, she wanted more wine. If she got drunk enough, she’d be more relaxed for the upcoming torture.
    “What are we making?” she asked with fake cheer.
    “Pasta. We shall eat a quick dinner before the rest of the family arrives, then put out pastries and coffee. You know how to cook pasta, Margherita?”
    Relief relaxed her tight muscles. Thank God. Mama Conte picked the one meal she excelled at. She often cooked pasta late at night and knew how to get it to the perfect consistency of al dente. Maggie nodded. “Of course.”
    Satisfaction flickered over the older woman’s face. “Good. We need a few batches. I’ve already gotten the ingredients.”
    The massive countertop held flour, giant eggs, oil, rolling pins, and a variety of other equipment. She glanced around for the box of ziti and a pot to boil the water in as Mama Conte handed her an apron. Maggie wrinkled her nose at the odd choice of clothing just to stick something in water, but what the hell. When in Italy . . .
    “I am sure you cook pasta differently in America, so you may watch me first, then prepare your batch.”
    Confusion fogged her brain for a moment, and Maggie refused to give in to panic. Where was the blue box? What was she talking about? In growing horror, she watched as wrinkled hands moved like lightning cracking eggs, straining yolks, and mixing everything in a bowl. The flour was dumped in the middle of a large board, and slowly, Mama Conte poured the wet stuff in the middle and began some kind of ritual that blended it all together. Like magic, dough suddenly appeared, and she kneaded, stretched, and danced over the blob for endless minutes. Completely fascinated by the hypnotic ritual, Maggie couldn’t believe this stuff would end up looking like anything you could actually eat. Never breaking the rhythm, Mama Conte glanced toward her. “You may begin when you are ready.”
    Oh. Shit.
    Reality hit her as she stared at the mass of stuff piled in front of her. Homemade pasta! She had to make the actual dough? There was no heavenly box to open, or a jar of sauce to heat up. The stakes were much higher than she thought, and Maggie felt the beginnings of an attack nibble on her sanity. She breathed deep. She could do this. No way would she be broken by a lump of dough and an Italian mother just waiting to pounce. She’d show them all.
    Maggie pulled the bowl close. The flour part was easy, but the eggs scared the hell out of her. Hm, one good crack in the middle, pull apart the shell, and the inside should slide out easily. With fake confidence, she slammed the egg against the edge of the bowl.
    The slimy stuff slipped into her hands and white shell scattered. One quick glance at Mama Conte confirmed she wasn’t looking over, and she trusted Maggie to get her batch done. Humming some Italian song under her breath, she kept kneading.
    Maggie scooped out as much of the shell as possible and left the rest in. A few more and she had some kind of wet ingredient that looked acceptable. Kind of. Screw it, she needed to move fast before his mother looked over. She poured a mass of flour in the center, then dumped the stuff in the bowl in the middle.
    Liquid ran over the edges of the board in a runny mess. Trying not to pant, she wiped her brow with her elbow and scooped up the mess with the apron. The damn fork didn’t help stir it at all, so Maggie took a deep breath and stuck both hands into the junk.
    Oh, gross.
    Flour caught under her nails. She squeezed over and over and prayed for some sort of miracle that resembled dough. Powder flew around her in a dust cloud. The more she panicked, the