Chapter 7“Where do you keep your cheese grater?” Tom peered out at me from the kitchen. He was making me dinner, and the smell of tomatoes, garlic, and basil filled my apartment like some sort of Italian fog, making my mouth water.
I called from the couch, where he had insisted I “stay put” while he fixed supper, “There’s a can of grated cheese in the fridge.” My mother used the stuff that came in the green can. If it was good enough for her, it was good enough for me. And Tom.
“Honey, you won’t want to eat that crap once you taste Parmigiano-Reggiano, freshly grated.” He moved a few more steps into the living room, a wooden spoon in his hand. He even wore an apron someone had bought me long ago, which bore the legend, “Kiss the Cock.” Yes, you read that right.
He looked adorable. And I
