“There is only one list of activities,” I say.
“Lucky guess.”
The instructor claps loudly, so I don’t get to respond. “Okay, people, we are going to get started! In front of you is a jar of flour. Go ahead and weigh out your flour—you’ll see themeasurements on the recipe card in front of you,” he says, his Italian accent becoming more pronounced as he monologues.
We follow his instructions, and I end up covered in flour just from weighing it out. By the time I’ve mixed my flour, eggs, oil, and salt into a dough ball, I’ve got flour and dough bits stuck all over my apron front, hands, and forearms. I feel like I’m in pottery class again, and, despite the presence of my ex-boyfriend, this is bringing me a lot of joy.
“You will knead the dough now. I am setting a timer for ten minutes. Please work the dough for the whole timer,” the instructor says, setting the dial of a small kitchen timer.
Kneading is meditative, if not a bit of a workout, but not so meditative that I forget Miles is still here next to me. He hasn’t said a word since we started making the dough, and I realize that he seems really focused on the task at hand. I steal a glance, but I regret it immediately.
His forearm muscles bulge and ripple as he kneads the dough. His whole body moves rhythmically with each movement, and I find myself so distracted by it all that I stop working my own dough.
“Making pasta is so much like making love,” the instructor says. “You must handle the dough with both tender, loving care and a firm hand.”
Miles looks over with a smirk as the instructor says this and catches me gawping at him. My cheeks heat, my neck heats, and I can’t look away fast enough. I knead my dough furiously, as if it’s a competition.
“You see something you like, Abby?”
“Yes. No! No. I just—noticed that you—you seem to know your way around a piece of dough. You know, for an athlete.”
“These hands have many talents,” he says, his voice low. “Or did you forget that, too?”
My knees buckle, and I lean into the table, trying to make it look like I’m putting extra effort into the knead.My god.
I’m saved from having to come up with something to say as the instructor approaches our station. He tells Miles his dough ball is perfect, but that mine could use some work.
“Sir, perhaps you can show the lady how it’s done?” The instructor points at Miles and then to me.
“No, no, it’s fine, I know how to knead dough,” I say as Miles says, “I’d be happy to help.”
“Yes, I insist, your dough is sad,” the instructor says.
“Yeah, Abby. Your dough is sad,” Miles says.
“Well, I don’t want sad dough,” I say through gritted teeth and a fake smile.
Miles reaches across me, and I step back. He starts to work my dough ball for me, but the instructor is waving his hands in protest.
“No, no, no. This is now how it’s done,” he says. “Youshowher how.” And then the man does some odd gestures that I don’t understand but Miles seems to because he places his hand on my lower back and guides me back to the countertop. He moves behind me, reaching his arms around to the front, placing my hands on the dough and then his hands on mine. I’m enclosed in his arms, his chest against my back.
Oh my god.
Surely this is not what this man meant, but there’s a huge, satisfied grin plastered to the instructor’s face, and he gives me a thumbs-up.
My heart is racing, beating so hard and fast I could be running up a flight of stairs or being chased by a lion. But no, I’m just reenacting a scene from the movieGhost, but with pasta dough and my ex-boyfriend.
Miles’s hands are moving my own on the dough, his hand pushing into mine as we stretch the dough away from us. Hecurls his hand around mine, drawing the dough back toward us. Our bodies rock back and forth in tandem with each push and pull. My eyes keep drifting to the ripple of muscle in his hands, his forearms. His hands engulf my own; the skin of his palms is rough, calluses marking the landscape of his contracting career.
He smells so good…like the sun, like sweat and something richer—a smoky vanilla scent that’s all too familiar to me. After a decade, being in his arms like this should feel unnatural or awkward, but it feels like the most natural thing in the world. The temptation to lean into him with each back and forth, to press my body back against his, tilt my head to the side, invite him to dip his head to my neck, run his lips along the thin, sensitive skin…
Fuck, I am in so much trouble.
“I think I got it, thanks,” I say, shrugging my shoulders, breaking my way out of the enclosure of his arms with a gentle shove.
He backs off, returning to his own spot, but there’s a smirk on his face. Of course he liked that. Of course he found that amusing.
The question is, did he find that as hot as I did?
