I’m in awe when Uri finally sets a plate of pasta down in front of me. The scallops look plump and juicy, the linguine melt-in-your-mouth good. And as it turns out, both assessments are one hundred percent accurate.
“Jesus H. and all his friends,” I gasp when I take my first mouthful. “You can cook.”
He winks unsmilingly at me. “I’m not just a pretty face.”
I can only shake my head in bewilderment. He’s got me totally confused after only a few hours together. He’s definitely no Boy Scout and I’m willing to bet that a healthy portion of the rumors I’ve heard about him are true. There’s no smoke without fire, as they say.
But no man who can cook like this can be a cold-blooded killer. I mean, that just doesn’t compute.
You’re forgetting the finger in your fridge, wise one.
Sure, but it
