Total pages in book: 26
Estimated words: 25004 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 125(@200wpm)___ 100(@250wpm)___ 83(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 25004 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 125(@200wpm)___ 100(@250wpm)___ 83(@300wpm)
“It’s because of me that people even know about this place.”
I grab the pot from off the stove and take it over to the dish area as the two of them continue to bicker back and forth.
“I wrote the special down.” I interrupt their fighting. My sister isn’t wrong about getting the word out about our place. Like I said, she's good at marketing.
“Truffles?” Enzo asks.
“You got a problem with my truffles?” I put my hands on my hips. I’ll go to war over truffles if I have to.
“They're expensive.” As they should be, considering how hard it is to get them.
“Stop, her math works. Anything she puts the word truffle on I add fifteen dollars to it. Truffle away,” my oldest brother Gio says, entering the kitchen next. I stick my tongue out at Enzo.
“When you start coming up with the specials and making them, you can comment on them. Go craft some cocktails.” I make a shooing motion with my hand. Enzo pretends to be wounded by my words.
“You've been hanging out with Bianca too much. She’s rubbing off on you.” Enzo throws an arm over my shoulder. “Try to remember that you’re the sweet sister.” He pulls me in for a tight hug.
“I can’t breathe.” Enzo squeezes a touch tighter before letting me go, getting his retribution. “It was your idea that we all work together,” I remind everyone.
Gio, Bianca, and I all kept with the jobs we’d been doing before. My load had been light because I’d been in school and doing side jobs. Gio, however, is an architect but owns his own business, so he can make his hours if need be, and Bianca still has a full-time job, but a lot of her stuff can be done at home, so she too can shift things around.
Enzo had left his. He managed a chain of restaurants. It was he and Dad that really got the ball rolling on the idea of opening this place. It was something all of them have talked about for years.
I didn’t hate the idea. It just scares me. I want this to work, but there is a silent pressure I feel on my shoulders. For the first time in my life, I can’t hide behind my family.
My food could make or break it all.
CHAPTER 3
JASE
By the eighth poem, Mom has nodded off. I toss a tangerine between my hands, contemplate eating it, and then opt against it. I settle into my home office and shoot an email to Calvin that I won’t be in the lab today. I’m going over the reports from here to see if we can move on to stage 3 or whether stage 2 has to be redone or if the whole study needs to be scrapped. The outcomes we’ve been seeing have been promising, but if we don’t have a good, healthy control group…
Hours later, Nurse Bri knocks on my door. “I’m leaving now, Dr. Ali. The night shift is here, and your mom is watching Wheel of Fortune. There’s some dinner in the kitchen, but it’s not very exciting. Just some breaded chicken and broccoli. Your momma has a hard time with spices these days.”
It must run in the family.
“Thanks, Bri. I appreciate it.”
“If you don’t want the chicken, there’s a new restaurant open down the street. Smells really good when I walk by it.”
“Thanks, Bri.”
There’s a half a beat of silence followed by, “Okay, if you need anything, just text me.”
I nod even though she can’t see me and return to my report. My stomach growls in protest. I throw down the paperwork. Fine. I’ll go get some food, but chicken and broccoli does not interest me.
What had Bri said? There was a new restaurant down the street? I could give it a try. I shove my feet into a pair of Nikes and walk down to the sidewalk. Once there, I realize I don’t know where the restaurant would be. To the east? To the west? Bri said it smelled good when she walked by. I guess I’ll walk until my nose tells me to stop.
Ten minutes later, I find myself in front of floor-to-ceiling glass windows trimmed out in light blue with the word Mancini in white script lettering. Through the glass, I see tables, waiters, and wine bottles. Looks very restauranty to me, plus it does smell good, although I’d be hard-pressed to say why.
A buff, dark-haired man looking more like a bouncer than a restauranteur greets me when I enter. “Welcome to Mancini. How many today?”
“Can I order takeout?” The place isn’t very crowded, but I’d rather eat at home. If the food doesn’t sit in my stomach, I don’t want to be worshipping the porcelain god here.
“Food tastes better here, and I’m not saying that because it’s my place but food is better when it’s hot. I’ve got a great table here by the window.” The man points to a space right under the lettering. It’s very exposed. I can’t think of a place where I’d want to sit less.