Chapter 3

"Amore Mia."

"Hi, Dad!" I greet, using my dough-covered fingers to place the call on speaker.

"How's my favorite daughter?"

A soft chuckle escapes my lips. "Dad," I groan. "I'm your only daughter."

"Therefore my favorite." I shake my head. This is such a dad joke, and mine uses it all the time. "What are you doing this morning?"

"I'm currently wrist-deep in pizza dough for girls' night tonight." My eyes glance around the kitchen of the townhouse I share with Brynn as I take in the mess before me. This morning I was in the mood to do some major baking which means now the white granite counters are scattered with baking ingredients and dirty dishes.

Being in the kitchen is my favorite form of self-care. It's a way for me to shut my brain off, embrace the chaos, and make something beautiful. The kitchen is my source of solace. I know I'm an anomaly, and you won't find many college-aged people in the kitchen making homemade pasta and baking loaves of bread, but it's what I enjoy.

It allows me to connect with my dad. Growing up, I was always in the kitchen helping him. I loved being his sous chef, and by helping him I, too, grew to love cooking and baking. My mind flashes to a memory I had long forgotten. I was seven, standing on a step stool, missing two front teeth, and my hair was piled high in uneven pigtails because my dad hadn't gotten the hang of doing them. Flour coated my face as he taught me how to make scones. The recipe came from his mom—my nana—as the two of us were needing something comforting.

Over the years, he's given up and lost a lot along the way, but one thing that never wavered was his hard work and dedication. It's admirable to see how hard he's worked to be where he is in his career by the age of forty.

When I was twelve, Dad got his big break. He won a food competition which earned him the award of becoming a sous chef at a top restaurant in Dallas. Between a food critic and journalist at the local paper, he was featured in a few articles talking about the next up-and-coming chef to hit Dallas. This was the gateway to the biggest career break he could have asked for. Now Scott Mariano is a Michelin-star chef and one of the country's top chefs. He owns two restaurants—an Italian restaurant in Dallas called Amore and Mariano's Prime Chophouse in Boston.

We owe a lot to the journalists who wrote dozens of articles on Dad. Seeing how crucial featured pieces are to newcomers in the food industry, it really inspired me to pursue a degree in journalism. I want to meet and highlight local chefs and help someone get their big break. Ideally, I'd love to get a job working for Bon Appétit magazine or even writing articles for Food Network's website.

My dad hums in response. "What's my little sous chef baking?"

"Oh you know, a little bit of everything. Vanilla bean scones, chocolate chip cookies, and pizza dough. Brynn and I are having a girls' night, and pizza sounded good.

"CTU's very own patisserie. I'm proud of you, Amore Mia."

A smile breaks free while my body heats with a warm and fuzzy feeling over my dad's compliment. "Thanks, Dad. I did learn from the best."

Using my flour-covered hands, I continue kneading the dough working the flour in. Pushing and pulling the dough until it starts to form the correct consistency.

"Speaking of the best," he begins with a mischievous tone. "I've been asked to open a new restaurant in Arizona. It happens to be at a beautiful spa, and I'm arranging for you and your friends to stay there to celebrate the end of your junior year. Which I'm still in denial about."

My hands freeze and sink in the dough. My stomach flutters with excitement.

"Are you serious?" My voice breaks in a squeal. A little happy dance breaks free, and I'm prancing my feet up and down. Giddiness rolls through me.

Growing up, Dad and I didn't have a lot. It was just the two of us after my mom up and left us when I was six. Dad and I have always made do with what we had. We lived in a two-bedroom apartment that some days felt no bigger than a shoe box, especially when Dad was trying out new recipes in the kitchen. Pots and pans littered every available space, the dirty ones often ended up on the floor to make room for more cooking.

It was a sacrifice.

But we never went without the essentials. I was clothed, fed—probably better than most kids since my dad knew how to work the kitchen—and showered with unconditional love. And while some days the love felt a little overwhelming, I know my dad was making up for my mom's abandonment. Making sure I knew how special I was. After all, I was his Amore Mia.

"Yes, beautiful girl. You and your friends deserve a little trip away from campus and what better way to celebrate the end of the school year than with your best friends…at a spa."

"Daddy, you're the best!" It was a good thing the phone was on speaker and not pressed to my ear, or my dad would have lost hearing with the high-pitched squeals that escaped. His chuckle fills the space, warming my heart, and it's at this moment I miss being home with him. Dad's job keeps him glued to the restaurant, and when he's not there, he's making special appearances on a very popular food network. Now with the new restaurant opening, I'll probably see him even less.

It's getting harder and harder to find time to see him now. My class schedule isn't forgiving, and his life revolves around his business. It'll become even more chaotic as he travels back and forth from Dallas to Arizona. My heart hurts that our relationship is changing, but I'm so proud of him. I'll never let him see me sweat our relationship, not when he's sacrificed so much while giving me the world.

But I can't fault him, he's found his passion in life. And after sacrificing for years while raising me, he deserves his moment. Plus, he's never too busy to give me a call and catch up, so I'll cherish everyone I get.

"I love you, Amore Mia." Voices come from his end of the phone, and I know that our time is ending. "I have to run. I'll have Kimmy email you all the details. I'm so proud of you, baby girl."

"I love you too, Dad," I start to say, but the line is cut off. Kimmy is my dad's assistant, and she's practically part of the family. If it wasn't for her keeping my dad in line, he'd live in the restaurant—or his car outside one of the restaurants.

Pushing my phone aside, I turn my attention to the dough that needs rolling out. Using the rolling pin, I press it into the soft mixture before I roll it away from me and then toward me. Keeping the movement going until the dough is the right thickness. Setting the pizza dough aside, I reach for the dough for the scones before grabbing the cutter as I begin cutting the mixture into triangles.

Sweets are my favorite food. There isn't one I prefer over the other. Give me some sort of carb, and I'm one happy girl. Except I'm one of the only girls who will be declining chocolate pastries. Give me the warm tastes, caramel, vanilla, cinnamon, and I'll be your bestie for life.

With the spatula, I lift each triangle and place them on the wax paper-lined baking sheet before placing them in the oven to cook.

Clicking the buttons to set the timer, I turn to make my way over to the kitchen sink and begin filling it with water and soap. It's time to tackle this disaster before Brynn comes home. It wouldn't be the first time she's come home to an explosion in our kitchen. Never once has she complained about the mess. She knows not to bite the hand that keeps her fed. If it was up to Brynn Wilder, she'd live off fast food burgers and milkshakes.

"Chloe!" Brynn yells from the front door, arriving at the perfect time. "I've got the beer, do you have the pizza?"

Nodding my head, I remove the pizza from the oven. "Of course. I wouldn't leave you in charge of the food."

"Hey, I take offense to that." Brynn strides into the kitchen with a six-pack of Shiner bottles before plopping down on a bar stool. Removing my oven mitt, I grab the magnetic bottle opener that rests on the side of the fridge. Walking back toward Brynn, I pass the opener across the granite. With a quick flick, she has two beers open and is sliding one toward me.

Catching the bottle, I bring it to my lips for a quick pull. Thirst has set in from all of the baking I did today, and even though beer isn't my first drink of choice, I'm too thirsty to care. I know that lifting weights should be on everyone's radar, but rolling out dough is as exhausting. Or maybe I'm just severely out of shape. I'm a runner, not a lifter.

Brynn's eyes flit around the kitchen. I watch her drool over the waiting pizzas that just came out of the oven. A pepperoni and pineapple pizza—yes, pineapple goes on pizza—and a supreme with all the toppings. Her eyes find the scones placed under a domed tray which are waiting by the coffee maker.

"What all did you bake today?"

"Vanilla scones, chocolate chip cookies, and the dough for the pizza."

"That's all?"

With an eye roll, I answer, "Yes, that's all."

She nods in response as she takes another drink. To some that may seem like a lot, but I've been known to bake six or seven different things depending on my mood. While I love to bake just because, it's also one of my biggest stress relievers. When life gets a bit too overwhelming, I've been known to hole up in the kitchen for hours baking and baking until my body nearly collapses from exhaustion.

Is it healthy? No. Is it therapeutic? Absolutely.

Taking the pizza cutter out of the drawer, I slice it into triangles—the superior pizza shape—while Brynn fills me in on her day. The two of us always seem to have our schedules opposite each other. I have classes from early morning to evening on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday while hers are from early morning to evening on Tuesday and Thursday. We may live together, but we rarely see each other. Her evening class was canceled tonight which is how we managed to both be free.

Sliding a slice of each pizza on our plates, I pass Brynn her plate before reaching to grab my beer. The two of us make our way into the living room.

"What's on tonight?" Brynn asks, taking her spot on the far end of the couch.

"It's Tuesday," I pause, trying to remember the TV schedule. "Oh shit, it's the first episode of the new season of Vanderpump Rules!"

"Dude! This season is going to be fucking crazy!"

"Absolutely crazy," I respond around a mouthful of food. Flipping through the channels, I surf until I find Bravo. They're playing last season's finale.

Turning until my back is to the armrest, and my knees are folded, I settle into the cushions, letting them envelop me like a giant bear hug. My attention finds Brynn, and I chuckle as I watch her shovel a mouthful of pepperoni and pineapple pizza into her mouth. She moans around the bite.

"Chloe, this pizza is amazing! Like can you just drop out and open a pizzeria? You'd be a millionaire in no time. Seriously, every person on campus would be keeping you in business, especially after parties."

"Thanks, B, but my dad is the chef, not me."

"Whatever." She takes another large bite of her pizza.

"So how's Q?"

"Ohemgee! I swear he's spent the last two weeks partying his ass off. From college parties to parties at The Eagles Nest. Hell, he's even gone to other bars. Everyone wants to party with the CTU Eagles."

Chewing around a mouthful of food, I take a second to swallow. "I mean it is a big deal."

"Obviously," she says. "But this week he's paying for it. He's like a hungover zombie right now. I saw him last night, and he was laying in bed with his blackout blinds shut trying to sleep off a two-week-long bender."

I laugh, shrugging. "What else is the top running back in the country supposed to do after bringing home CTU's first championship?"

"Please, the boy doesn't need any more ego going to his head. The other day we were having sex, and he paused right in the middle, looked me dead in the eye, and said ‘call me Mr. MVP.'" I burst out laughing, choking on the beer I had just attempted to swallow. "I'm not kidding. Motherfucker literally said that. Like I'll call you Daddy before Mr. MVP." She made a gagging noise, and the laughter kept pouring from me.

"Was he joking?"

"Thank God he was. He said he was waiting for my reaction." Her eyes roll. "I told him I was waiting for my orgasms, and he owed me three after that bullshit."

The two of us laugh. I watch as Brynn goes from hysterics to her face dropping, as her features turn serious.

"What's wrong, B?" I ask, my voice softening as I watch my friend wage a war in her mind.

"He's leaving."

Giving her a tight-lipped smile, I reach for her. Brynn sets her plate on the table before putting her hand in mine. I pull her toward me as she slides across the couch. She doesn't stop until the two of us are wrapped together under my blanket.

"Babe, deep down we've always known that Quinton was going to enter the draft and leave school early. He's been talking about his plan since we've known him."

"I know, but like now it's really happening."

"Brynn, Quinton Boyd is in love with you. Madly. Deeply. Whole-heartedly. He's not going anywhere."

Her body shimmies before her head rests against my shoulder. I pull her in tighter to me, wrapping my arm around her shoulders. "I know, but shit, I thought the jersey chasers in college were bad. What's it going to be like when he's in the NFL? Women are going to be throwing themselves at him even more."

"It's for one year. One year apart. Once you graduate next spring, the two of you can be together again. And let me remind you, he loves you!"

"You sound like Cody."

I tense at the mention of his name, hoping Brynn didn't catch the way I stiffened.

She noticed. Sitting up and slipping out from our little cocoon, Brynn turns slightly to face me. "What was that?"

"What was what?"

Her eyes narrow into slits as she stares me down. "You stiffened when I mentioned his name."

"No, I didn't." Lie.

"Yes, you did. Did he do something to you?"

"No." Yes.

She stares me down. This time I had luck on my side, and the TV starts with the intro to the new season of Vanderpump. Thank God.

"This isn't over," Brynn says as she settles in next to me, situating herself so the two of us are cuddled together.

Reaching beside her, I watch as she grabs her phone. Swiping open the camera app, she situates the lens until the two of us are at the angle she wants in the frame. Snapping a picture of us, she heads to Instagram before posting it with the caption ‘Beers, Bitches, and Vanderpump #noboysallowed.'

"Oh!" I shout during the next commercial break. "My dad called today. He is arranging for us to have a girls' weekend at this spa where he's opening a new restaurant."

"Dude, your dad is freaking awesome," Brynn says with a sigh. "Can he adopt me?"

"Have you finally let the crush on my dad go?"

"Hell no. He's still a Daddy."

"Oh my gosh, Brynn!"

"Whatever, you know your dad is hot."

I roll my eyes before scrolling through my emails. There's a lot riding on this semester. This is my fifth semester on the campus newspaper staff, and it's the one class that I really love. All of my classes are great, but there's just something about getting the hands-on experience of writing for an actual newspaper. The assignments for the semester are supposed to be emailed out any day now which has my phone glued to my hand.

"What's got you so focused on your phone?"

"I'm waiting on an email from the professor of the newspaper staff."

"An email with your assignment for the semester?" she asks, curiosity painting her face.

I blow a deep breath out and toss my phone aside. "Yeah. I'm really hoping I get assigned the lead on the lifestyle beat. It'd be the closest to getting more in-depth practice for post-college."

Brynn pauses the TV before shifting her entire focus to me.

"You've got this, babe. Seriously, you're insanely talented. I mean you are obsessed with words. You're the biggest bookworm I know. Not to mention, I love reading everything you write, and you know I don't like to read. You have a passion for the written word. Every article you write puts the reader in the scene."

"Thanks, Brynn Brynn."

"Anytime, Chlo Chlo. Now can we please get back to the Tom and Katie drama?"

Brynn's right, I've got this.

This is my semester.

My year.