Free Of Starlight by Dan Rix Page B

black pepper . . . you didn’t need me to taste it, did you?” I accused.
    “Nope.” He held my gaze. “But then, I didn’t need you to grate parmesan cheese either. But I wanted you to.”
    For a moment I got lost in his eyes, and my mind went infuriatingly blank. When he didn’t look away, I felt my cheeks flush.
    He nodded to the pan and the baking sheet. “Now you’re going to spread this sauce on that dough. I’ll show you how.”
    “Do you ever ask people to do things? Or do you just order people around all the time?
    “I was a quarterback,” he said. “Those habits die hard.”
    “I don’t like being told what to do,” I said.
    “Yes, you do.”
    I felt warmth on the back of my neck, but not from his sharp stare. His gaze flicked to something over my shoulder, and he smiled. I spun around.
    Ashley stood in the doorway, her face flat.
    “What’s up, Ash?” Emory said brightly. “Want to help us cook?”
    “Mom wants to know when dinner is.”
    “Fifteen minutes,” he said. “We’re making your favorite. Four-cheese pizza.”
    Her gaze flicked to mine, and she rolled her eyes and slunk back upstairs, leaving my skin crawling.
    How long had she been watching us?
    “Come on, let’s get this baby done.” Unfazed, Emory set the steaming pan of sauce down on the counter and whacked a spoon into my hand, and together we spooned the pizza sauce onto the dough and sprinkled cheese on top—he’d already grated a bunch of mozzarella, asiago, and fontina cheese to go with my parmesan—and finally he opened the oven and slid the pizza onto the rack.
    “Hey, Em.” Emory’s dad bustled into the kitchen and took a satisfied sniff. “What’s on the menu?”
    “Pizza, salad, meatballs . . . nothing special.”
    “What kind of wine should I pair with it?”
    “Since the pizza’s heavy on the parmesan—” Emory threw me a pointed look, “I’d go with something medium-bodied and crisp . . . the Pino Grigio would be perfect.”
    “My thoughts exactly.” His dad caught my eye with a conspiratorial look and held his thumb and forefinger an inch apart. “Pour a little for you?”
    “Oh, uh—” I brushed my hair out of my eyes, having forgotten I was even in the room with these two charismatic men. “No thanks. I drove here.”
    His fingers inched closer together, and his eyebrow nudged upward. “Just a sip?”
    “Yeah . . . I probably shouldn’t,” I said, biting my lip.
    He pouted, and the expression was so comical on his serious-looking face I laughed.
    “Dad, this is Leona.” Emory put his palm on my lower back, unamused. “If you’re going to get her drunk, you should at least know her name.”
    “John,” said his dad, taking my hand with a wink. He continued into the dining room and hollered, “I’ll set the table.”
    “I was just about to do that,” said Emory’s mom, breezing in from the other door.
    “Great minds think alike,” said his dad, and they met in the middle and gave each other a loud smooch.
    “Get a room, you two,” Emory shouted, checking on the pizza. 
    I edged closer to him and whispered, “I’m in love with your family.”
    He smiled knowingly. “Just wait until Ashley turns on the charm.”
    At the mention of her, I tensed up a little. “I don’t think she likes me.”
    “She will,” he said.
    Take a good look at them, Leona, said a little voice in my head.
    “Hi, Leona. So good to see you again,” his mom said, coming into the kitchen, greeting me like I was an old family friend. She was glowing. “You want something to drink? Wine? Beer? A cocktail? Juice? Milk? Coconut water? Seven-Up?”
    “I’ll have whatever he’s having,” I said, poking Emory’s arm, using it as an excuse to touch him.
    “That’ll be a triple shot of gin with an orange peel and a dash of lime,” said Emory.
    “Okay, two underage hangovers,” she said. “You guys want a chaser with that?”
    “Make that three of those, hun,” his dad