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“Nope. Usually, I’m in the kitchen while they have their party or do their thing. Mostly they ignore me unless they want something.”
“Would you rather I leave you alone?”
Simon paused as he scooped floor from the bag directly onto the island’s surface. “Not at all. I like talking while I cook, actually. It’s how I grew up. A big family kitchen, five different conversations going on at the same time, my grandfather always trying to sneak tastes of whatever Omma was cooking, little ones running through.” He shook his head as he moved around me to the refrigerator. “I never wanted to play with my cousins. I wanted to watch Omma cook. She and my dad got into a huge argument once when I was ten. He wanted me to come outside and play football with the rest of the men, but Omma wanted to teach me how to make a pie crust.” Simon turned and winked at me. “My dad lost. Thank God.”
I laughed as Simon returned to the island with two eggs.
“You’re a professor, right?” he asked. “English? How did you decide that’s what you wanted to do?”
“Similar to you,” I said. “Always had my nose in a book from the time I could read. Loved English in school. Then I felt at home on a campus when I went to college and wanted to stay in that bubble forever.”
“Is it what you thought it would be?”
“For the most part. I don’t love all the aspects of my job, but then most people don’t, and some of my colleagues are…” I searched for a word to describe the more pretentious members of my department, but the best I could come up with was what my English-born friend Elliott called them. “…arse-biters, wankers, and yobs.”
Simon laughed, and I found I like the sound of it. I also like the way he closed his eyes when he laughed and little lines like cat whiskers appeared in the corners.
“That describes some of my clients, too,” Simon said, then inclined his head towards me. “Present company definitely excepted, of course.”
“Of course,” I murmured and watched as he made a well in the flour.
He cracked the two eggs into it and then poured in a bit of olive oil, then used his fingers to begin mixing the liquids, gradually adding flour as his hands danced. Once the mixture became a ball, he began kneading it, and I was captivated by the movement of his hands. The flex of his fingers, the ripple of bones under the skin, the turn of his wrists as he worked the dough back and forth on the table.
I cleared my throat. “For the most part, I enjoy what I do and feel fortunate to be doing it.”
“Amen to that,” Simon said. He stopped kneading and poked a finger into the ball of dough.
“What are you doing?”
“Testing if it’s been worked enough. When it’s right, the dough springs back because the gluten has been activated.”
“Okay.” I nodded. “I’ll pretend I know what any of that means.”
Simon considered me for a moment and then motioned for me to come around to his side of the island. “I’ll show you,” he said when I stood next to him. “First, wash your hands.”
After I’d washed and dried my hands to his satisfaction, he told me to press an index finger into the dough, which I did. It was surprisingly warm, and I figured it had picked up the heat from Simon’s hands.
I snuck a quick glance at him. This was as close as I’d been to him all evening, having greeted him at the door but not been able to offer a handshake as he had a large box in his arms. He’d also had several canvas and thermal bags hanging off his shoulders, and the greeting was a jumble of hellos, can I take anything, and no worries, I’ve got it as I reached to take a bag or the box from him and he dodged out of the way. It had taken him two additional trips to bring all his supplies from his vehicle and begin organizing the kitchen.
Now, here we were, and I could finally see that Simon’s eyes were not simply the brown I’d originally thought, but a rich chocolate with flecks of gold around his pupil. His hair, which he had tied back in a bun was similarly colored — a rich golden brown — and he honestly smelled of cinnamon with an undertone of vanilla and musk. It was heady, and the wine I’d had already didn’t help matters.
“See how it feels a bit stiff? How it doesn’t spring back from your touch?”
His words shook me out of my reverie, and I nodded as he reached for the olive oil.
“The dough’s a bit too dry, so I’m adding some more oil. It’s supposed to be smooth but have some spring to it.”
Applying a thin layer of oil to his hands, Simon began working the dough again. I was as captivated as before by the movement of his hands, maybe even more so because I was closer now and could hear the small huffs of air he made as he pressed the heels of hands into the dough and pushed it away from himself. He stopped a couple of times to push at his sleeves, moving the cuffs away from his wrists, but they always crept downward again, driven by the force of his movements.
Impatient, he brushed a lock of hair that had come loose from his face with the back of his hand and tugged on his sleeves again. The tendons on his neck grew taut as the movement pulled his head to the side. The skin there was smooth and seemed to glow under the pendant lights that hung over the center island.
“You could take it off,” I said, suddenly dry-mouthed and feeling more foolish than I cared to think about.
Simon assessed me for a moment.
“If you’d be more comfortable,” I added. “I don’t need you to be so formal.”
“Okay,” he answered, then nodded toward the dough. “Why don’t you give it a try while I strip.” And then he laughed, not unkindly, as my cheeks flamed but didn’t say anything as he stepped away and unbuttoned his white jacket. He draped it over the back of the couch in the living room, then returned to my side, now clad only in a light blue t-shirt that set off the golden tones in his skin. Now visible, the muscles on his arms were impressive. His well-defined forearms and the biceps that bunched and flexed as he handled the dough were the product of hours spent in the kitchen not the gym. I’d never appreciated the physicality of cooking more than I did at this moment.
