Panicking, he kicked the oven open with his foot and shoved the pan in. With his free hand, the one that wasn’t stirring the pasta, he grabbed for the jar of tomato sauce and nearly fumbled it, just barely managing to catch it before it crashed to the floor.
The door swung open to reveal Stephanie.
“I was knocking,” she said. “I guess you didn’t hear me…” Her eyes swept across the scene. “Wow. Looks like I’ve been missing out on some fun.”
Elijah couldn’t help it. He let out a groan. “I’m hopeless,” he said. He put the jar of sauce on the counter and tried to give the noodles a stir, but they were starting to clump together. “I have a confession to make. I’m not really a cook.”
She laughed. “I never would have guessed! Let me help out with that.”
“You shouldn’t have to.”
“I’m a good cook,” she said. “And if we work together, I bet we can salvage this.” She sniffed. “Is that garlic bread?”
“Oh, God, is it burning?”
“Relax. It smells great,” she said. “Why don’t you check on it? Do you have any olive oil?”
“Not… that I know of.” He looked around.
“That bottle there.” She pointed to a glass bottle on the counter among Ernesto’s ingredients. “Could you hand me that?”
He did so, and she drizzled a little into the pot with the spaghetti. “Put a little of this in first next time,” she advised. “It’ll help ensure that the pasta doesn’t stick together.”
“Will it still work?”
“See for yourself.” She used the spoon to lift a strand of spaghetti out of the pot and plucked it up with her fingers. “Come here.”
He did so with misgivings. She held the noodle out. “Open.”
He opened his mouth and she popped it in. Her fingers lingered for a moment, pressing against his lips—had that been deliberate? His heart raced, but she was already turning back to the pot and starting to stir again.
But he thought he saw the hint of a blush on her cheeks.
He had never experienced anything like this. This was their fourth date, or maybe their fifth—again, it depended on how you counted. She had brushed his lips with her fingers—nothing more than that—and they were both completely undone.
It was a feeling he could never have imagined. That something so small could affect him so much. It was strange—almost magical.
He wanted more of it. He wanted to do more little things. Rest a hand on the small of her back. Inhale the scent of her hair. Stare into her eyes.
Who was he? How had these become the things he was desperate for?
And would he get them?
Shaking off the intense imaginings, he went to the oven and looked in at the garlic bread. “How do I know when this is done?”
“Is it looking brown?”
“A little.”
“Then it’s probably done. It’s just toast. It should be whatever shade of brown you like your toast to be.”
He examined the bread and decided it was probably good enough. Grabbing an oven mitt, he pulled it out and set it on the counter.
Stephanie looked over. “Oh, yeah. That looks perfect,” she said with a smile. “Hand me the strainer?”
He passed it to her, and she drained the pasta in the sink and shook it. “I’ll do the sauce,” she suggested.
He groaned again. “I really didn’t mean for you to get here and have to take over all the work. This is pretty embarrassing.”
