Page 10 of Dining for Love
And I amespeciallygoing to kill my traitorous best friend, Matty. Who just FaceTimed me on his way back from visiting Farmer John about thirty miles north of here to inoculate all the cows.
Yes, Farmer John really is the man’s name, bless his heart.
I’m about to lay into Matty for FaceTiming while he drives, because he knows good and well how I feel about that, but you know what? No. Maybe this way he’ll have a tiny wreck. Bust a tire.Thenthere’s a chance he won’t be as into this stupid double-single date thing that Goldie’s roped me into. Because when the hell has Goldie ever needed my help roping a man?
Never, folks. The answer is never. I am the opposite of helpful.
“Come on, Willa,” Matty wheedles, giving me a view of his nostrils as he holds the phone and drives. “Just do it. What’s the harm?”
“You have a booger in your nose.”
He smirks and moves the mobile closer to his nose. “Wanna pick it?”
“You’re disgusting.”
He readjusts his hold and glances at me. “Come on, Willa. Be a good sport.”
“Because being a good sport means looking like an idiotic third wheel on what is clearly a date for my sister?”
Matty makes a noise in the back of his throat.
“What was that?” I demand.
“What was what?”
“That noise. Did you just snort your snot?” I gag. “You’re disgusting.”
“It was just a noise!”
I point at the screen. “No. You’ve been a large animal vet for too long. You’ve gone to the dark side. You’re snorting snot.”
“Willa!” he laughs. “I wasn’t…God, I can’t even say it.You’redisgusting.”
“Fine. Then you made that noise on purpose. Why?”
Matty shrugs and grins. “Nothing, Willa. I was clearing my throat.”
“Bullshit.”
Goldie chooses that moment to FaceTime me as well. Rolling my eyes, I say, “Goldie’s calling. Behave.”
“Don’t I always?” he asks with a mischievous smile.
“You do the opposite, Matthew John Brodigan.” With that, I disconnect with him and accept the call with my little sister.
Her smile fills the screen, but I can still tell she’s in her bedroom at our parents’ house. Even though I couldn’t wait to move out and get my own place, Goldie has no such desire. “What are you wearing?” she asks.
I angle the phone down so she can see. “Same as earlier.”
She makes a face. “Absolutely not. Don’t you have a dress?”
“Have you met me?” I don’t care about clothes, and sheknows it. Most of mine smell like the diner, anyway, no matter how much detergent I put in the wash, so why bother? I mean, sure, I could wear chef’s pants and tops in the diner, but one, it’s adiner, and two, I haven’t worn a chef’s coat and pants since that disaster of a semester at the Culinary Institute of America.
Spend ten weeks getting followed around by a film crew you didn’t know was going to be there, layer on top a chef whose anger and ego make Gordon Ramsay look like a kitten, and you get my illustrious CIA career. One that I have no intention of reviving. I’ll be just fine here at the diner, thank you very much.
On the screen, the eye roll that Goldie gives me is Oscar-worthy. “Come on, Willa. Put in some effort. You wore that all day today.”
“And why not keep wearing them?” My most comfortable shorts and a white T-shirt.