A Pinch of Cool. Mary Leo

his van. And Voodoo!

      “Burn it!” she ordered. “Leave no thread uncharred.”

      “I’ll get right to it. Enjoy your shower, sweetheart.”

      Her mom left while holding the dress out in front of her with one hand. Mya closed the bathroom door, opened the glass door on the shower, turned on the water so it was nice and hot, stripped off her underwear and stepped under the gentle spray.

      She wanted to stand there for the next hundred years and let the warm water run over her aching body. She had little aches and pains everywhere. She wondered how a simple ride from the airport could have caused all of this. She even had a bruise on her left shin.

      Next time she’d take a cab or rent a car or steal a skateboard. She figured her lack of transportation judgment must have something to do with the coming-home thing. That unconscious need to be taken care of. The desire to return to the child stage, or some such madness. Why else would she have agreed to hitch a ride from Eric Baldini? The Tormentor.

      Then she thought of how incredibly sexy she had felt when Eric had stared at her legs. She hadn’t been that turned on over something that simple in, well, forever. He had the best eyes, an olive-green color, and could probably be astonishingly attractive if he just dressed the part. Maybe a little product in his hair to make it stand up a little, a classic Calvin Klein shirt, and some H&M slacks. And where did he get those absolutely horrid blue shoes?

      But why was she even thinking about Eric? He and his monster dog lived in Georgia for heaven’s sake. It was like swooning over somebody who lived in Brooklyn.

      He may as well live on another planet!

      She told herself to stop daydreaming and to think about her purpose for coming to L.A. in the first place. To save La Dolce Rita.

      She needed to focus.

      Now that she was safely home, she would go over her notes and present them at dinner. Turning, she let the water run down her face and belly while she lathered her hair, carefully. She turned again, rinsed and lathered it three more times, just to make extra sure the yellow goo was completely gone, along with any Eric Baldini residue.

      Okay, she was back on track. Back in control.

      Mya finished washing, dried off, dressed in a white Hugo Boss shirt and Ralph Lauren pink capris while she mentally prepared her speech on rules for cool. She wanted to wow Franko and her mom with her plan, and by tomorrow when the actual meeting rolled around, everyone would be prepared for the perfect pitch, Mya-style.

      ERIC HAD WAITED PATIENTLY for someone to come home to let him in after Mya had locked him out. It wasn’t a long wait, maybe an hour or so. Obviously, no one had told Mya that he was her mother’s house guest for the next two weeks while his dad’s house was being renovated. He wondered how Mya would react to his constant presence after their afternoon together. Not that it was a necessarily bad afternoon. It was more in the somewhat strained category of afternoons.

      At one point, he actually toyed with the idea of getting a room somewhere, but then decided against it because of his dog. Voodoo was a point of contention to most hotel and motel owners. It was just easier to sleep on a mat in the van while he traveled. However, sometimes getting a shower was something of a problem, but he hadn’t expected to have to pick up Mya at the airport the very day he arrived in L.A. That was his father’s idea, and not a very bright one. He never should have agreed to it, but his dad always could get him to do things he didn’t want to do.

      Now, as he stood in front of the bathroom mirror off the guest room, shaving off his three-day-old beard, he wondered if giving her a ride home had been a smart move. The look on her face when he hugged her said it all. The woman wanted to run, not hug. He could see it in her eyes, those fantastic smoky eyes. And that body.

      He put on his only clean T-shirt, black, and a pair of shiny blue knee-length shorts. Admittedly, he didn’t look quite up to her funky standards, but at least he didn’t smell anymore. He blamed the obnoxious odor on those bottles of spicy Cajun mustard his father had forced him to lug back from New Orleans. Voodoo couldn’t leave anything alone once it was inside the van.

      Of course, Eric should have cleaned it up before he picked up Mya, but Voodoo had just ripped open the plastic bottles on the way and there hadn’t been any time.

      This whole thing had been his father’s idea. Eric was happily filming his saloons when his dad had called him, begging for some help with La Dolce Rita. Not that Eric had a single idea of what to do to help, but his dad insisted that he come out anyway. He never could say no to his dad. The man had a way of making everything sound exciting. Like it was Eric’s idea. And this was no exception. By the time he drove into L.A. he was feeling euphoric about the possibilities, even though he still hadn’t one single clue of what to do to help. When he had heard that Mya was on her way out as well, he’d hoped they could work together on the show, but after everything that had happened that afternoon, he was sure the show was categorically doomed.

      “AH, THAT’S MY BEAUTIFUL MYA,” Rita said crisply as Mya walked into the kitchen. Rita held out her arms and Mya embraced her mother. “Do you feel better, sweetheart?”

      “Much,” Mya answered while they hugged even tighter.

      Rita was the kind of mom every girl dreamed of, loving, beautiful and totally her own woman. It had always been just Mya and her mom. Her dad had died soon after she was born, so Mya hadn’t ever known her real father, just Franko. Rita owned several small businesses and some prime real estate, ran their house and looked amazingly young for her fifty-three years. She just needed a little boost to that incredible look of hers.

      Franko had his back to her, stirring something in the corner of the kitchen. He wore a large white apron over his casual clothes, just like Emeril. Actually, Franko looked a little like Emeril, with his stocky build and black, perfectly combed hair. But Franko had a gorgeous smile, no doubt where Eric got his smile from, that he was quick to share for almost any reason. Franko was one of those content, happy men who never seemed to worry about anything.

      “Ciao, bella,” he said as he turned to face Mya, his hands in the air, beaming as if he were truly surprised to see her. Franko had come over from Italy when he was just nineteen and never really lost his fabulous accent. Thus the reason he and Rita had been so successful. She was his American voice.

      Mya was surprised at her reaction to seeing him. A thrill raced over her. Franko had virtually raised her as his own daughter, and Mya loved him for it. The only thing that kept her from calling him Dad was a lack of a marriage certificate between him and her mom.

      “Ciao, bello,” Mya echoed and held out her arms as well. She loved to be hugged by Franko. He made her feel safe and warm and he smelled of anisette, one of her favorite liqueurs.

      “You look’a like the queen,” he announced while they embraced.

      “The queen of what?” Mya asked as she pulled away from him and gazed into his smiling face. She loved his rugged Italian face, full of love and compassion, and excitement. He had a dimple in each cheek, and a broad forehead and sparkling almond eyes.

      “The queen of’a my heart.”

      She melted back into his embrace for a few seconds longer. “What more could a girl want?”

      “A FANCY DINNER DRESS,” Grammy Strano repeated as she scooped a few more clams into her dish. The two families had gathered around Rita’s long dinner table, and Grammy was busy giving a lecture on dinner etiquette. She still wore her golden hair in a stylish page-boy, and wore pink cat-eye glasses with rhinestones embedded in the corners. She kept her weight just under slim, had silky, olive-colored skin and a smile that was contagious. “In my day, the women came to the dinner table dressed in gowns and the men wore suits. None of this shorts business.”

      She sat next to Eric and gazed down at his legs, scolding him with her eyes. Then she addressed the rest of the group around the table. Grammy liked being the center of attention, and always spoke her mind. “Dinner was an event. Then after dinner somebody