August nodded at him. “Funny, indeed. I wasn’t askin’, Anthony. It’s what we’ll be doing today. You’ll get a few containers with leftovers, and the rest will be kits we’ll put together. I promise you clear-cut instructions, and you’ll only have to buy the main ingredients. I’ve bought the seasonings and prepared measurements and dry goods. End of discussion.”

Damn. He got all dominant with me.

I wouldn’t go down so easily, though. As soon as I got home, I was calling Nonna. She could teach me enough so that I could make myself more useful when August and Camden visited.

Nicky could teach me some things too. I knew he was spending the day sight-seeing and shopping with Gideon and the others, and maybe they could pick up August’s cookbooks for me in town.

True to his word, August put us to work in the kitchen all day. The island quickly filled up with a neat grid of containers and notes with instructions. Right now, I was tasked with dividing boxes of fancy pasta into servings. One cup in each plastic bag, and there was everything from tagliatelle and rigatoni to linguine and macaroni.

I kept telling him it was too much. I felt a little embarrassed too. Forty-three years old, and I couldn’t cook worth a damn.

“I don’t wanna hear it, boy,” August told me. “You’ve spent years building an institution that helps people. You think I don’t know? You may not enjoy speakin’ about yourself, but your brother doesn’t have that problem. He told me quite a bit at the barbecue.”

For chrissakes. “He was undoubtedly tryna be my wingman.”

“I don’t think so,” Camden said, wiping his hands on a towel. “I talked to him too. And Maria—and Luiz. You’re the freaking glue in your community—the one who fixes all the problems. You must’ve forgotten to tell us that part.”

I didn’t wanna hear it. They were exaggerating. I did my part at home, like everyone else, and it was no excuse for not taking the time to learn how to cook fucking pasta.

“They love you, darlin’, and it’s easy to see why.” August passed me with a smooch to my cheek before he went to pull something out of the fridge. “Now—cheese. I bought some fantastic Parmesan and Pecorino Romano for you—that you’ll be cutting into pieces when you’re done with the pasta—but you’ll have to drag your rear to the store and buy burrata and ricotta. That okay?”

I did my best to shake the discomfort and their kind words, and I slid onto one of the stools on this side of the island. “I know my way around a grocery store pretty well. I often pick things up for my grandmother.”