With clean hands, I put him to work slicing the fennel bulb thinly using a mandoline. Part of me worries he’ll cut his million-dollar hands, but then again, if he owns the tool, he must know how to use it. Meanwhile, I prepare everything for the pasta, browning the pancetta and mixing up the eggs and cheese while water starts to boil for the noodles.
The fennel salad comes together the quickest, with just some lemon juice, olive oil, and the fennel. I open the cupboards in his kitchen until I spy a bag of almonds, and pull out a handful before giving them a rough chop and tossing them in.
“Can you turn the oven on to warm up the bread?” I turn around just in time to see Kai sneaking a piece of pancetta off the paper towel it’s draining on and lifting it to his mouth. Placing my hands on my hips, I fight to hide my smile. “Still stealing bites before everything’s ready, I see?”
He gives me an utterly unrepentant grin. “Quality control.”
Ha. That’s what he used to call it in university, too, when I would try to cook us a meal in the pathetic excuse for a communal kitchen in our dorm. He was always sneaking pieces of whatever I was preparing before it was ready.
I roll my eyes and attempt to hip check him out of the way so I can finish the pasta. But instead of moving away, he crowds inbehind me, resting his head on my shoulder as I quickly fold in the egg and cheese mixture.
“Damn, that looks good.”
I turn my head slightly, then pause when the movement makes his cheek drag against my own.
His hands come to my waist as he lifts his head. “Sorry.”
“No, it’s okay.” Is my voice breathy? It sounds breathy. He’s just so…close.
His fingers squeeze my hips just a tiny amount, but I notice it. And I definitely notice the way my body misses him the second he steps away.
“I’ll grab some plates.”
We eat in relative silence. And by relative, I mean no words are spoken, but Kai makes plenty of satisfied noises as he polishes off his plate and some of mine when I wordlessly slide it toward him.
“Fuck, Iz. That was, by far, the best food I’ve ever tasted.” He pushes away from the table, slouching in his chair with a groan. “I’m not sure I’ll be able to pitch very fast tonight. I’m gonna be in a food coma.”
I stand up and clear the table, needing a reason to put some space between us. There’s something about feeding someone I care about. It touches my soul on a different level compared to cooking for strangers in the restaurant. And hearing him enjoy my food? The sounds he made? My freaking panties feel damp, and I kept having to clench my thighs together.
I want him. But that want is battling against my remorse. How is it fair for me to even think about wanting him, much less acting on it, when I know how badly I hurt him? Or how I’m leaving again in a matter of weeks, and the last thing I want to do is hurt him again.
“Hey, leave the dishes. I’ll chuck everything in the dishwasher before I go to the stadium.” He comes up behind me, taking my hand and drawing me out of the kitchen.
“Okay. But I should go. You’ve got to be at the stadium really soon.” I look everywhere but at him. Until his hand gently tips my chin up.
“Iz. What’s going on? Did I say something wrong?”
I lift my gaze to meet his concerned one. “No, not at all. Today has been, well, wonderful.”
He nods. “Yeah, it has. So why do you look like you’d rather be anywhere but here?”
My tongue darts out to moisten my lips, and his brown eyes zero in on the motion. Do I tell him how mixed up I am inside? My confession pours out of me before I can stop it. “Doesn’t it feel weird to you? Being around each other, holding hands, all of it. I…I like it, but then again, maybe I like it too much.”
He steps in closer. My heart starts to race. I can’t believe I said that.
“It’s hard to keep my hands off you.”
His confession hits me. And the air escapes my chest in a rapid exhale.
“Iz.”
“Yeah?” I whisper.
“Do you think friends that hold hands can kiss each other?” His lips quirk up in a small grin but there’s an undertone of vulnerability etched in his face.
I choke out a breathless laugh. “I’m not sure. What do you think?”
“I think they do.”
