He huffs out a breath. “Were you the kind of kid who ate hers?”
“Regrettably.” I look back slyly. “The blue tasted the best.”
His lips twitch, as if he’s fighting a smile. He leans over my shoulder, his hands covering mine. A lick of fire goes through me, settling in a decidedly inconvenient location. My toes curl in my sensible, kitchen-approved sneakers. I learned the other day that the pine scent that clings to him comes from the beard oil he uses, and it’s all I can focus on now. Pine and salt, and the nearly irresistible desire to shift my hips against his.
I force myself to stare at the dough instead. Now that I’ve thought of it as Play-Doh, I can’t get that out of my brain. Something I’ve noticed I enjoy about cooking is how tactile it is. Actively doing something is much better for my ADHD than sitting around thinking.
“Like this,” he says, guiding my hands to knead it. “Be gentle, but firm.”
I bite back a squeak. That hasnobusiness sounding so hot. I keep my gaze on the table, mimicking the movements Jack makes. Unfortunately, that just gives me a front-row seat to the way his toned forearms are flexing. I refocus before doing something reckless, like leaning down to nip one of his many tattoos. Slowly, the dough comes together.
“What does kneading it do?” I finally ask, trying desperately tofocus on something other than the hard, muscular body brushing against my backside. If he’s realized where he’s touching, he’s either much better at ignoring it than me... or it’s not accidental.
I shake that thought away immediately. Begrudging awareness of attraction does not a crush make. He’s being professional, like he always is in the kitchen. I’m the one wondering about dirty things, like if the bulge I keep noticing is as big as it seems.
“It builds up the gluten,” he replies. He steps away, leaving me to continue kneading on my own. I swallow my disappointment. Out of the corner of my eye, I think I notice him adjust his jeans, but it might be wishful thinking. “It makes it strong, but elastic, so it’s pliable for when it gets rolled out. I’ll show you on the machine once the dough rests.”
We put the dough in the fridge and clean up the workstation. While I catch up on content creation—guiltily sending a call from my dad to voicemail in the process—Jack goes out front to meet Herman; they’re working on painting the walls. He comes back a little while later with a streak of blue underneath his eye.
My heart somersaults against my ribcage.
Apparently, rolling out pasta dough is nearly as satisfying as making it in the first place. Once it’s thin enough, we cut it into strips by hand—using a ruler because Jack is nothing if not precise when he cooks. He directs me to portion out the pasta while he goes into the walk-in, emerging a few moments later with a container of clearly homemade tomato sauce.
“When did you make this?” I ask.
“Yesterday, when you were out looking at glassware.” He takes out a saucepan, lighting the burner underneath it, and pours in the sauce. He fills a pot with water, adding it to the stovetop on another burner.
“Fresh pasta only needs a few minutes to cook,” he says. “And I don’t care what anyone says about sodium content—you salt the hell out of the water. Doesn’t taste the same otherwise.”
“Heard,” I say, laughing when he mimes dumping the entire salt well into the pot. “Speaking of glassware...”
“No.”
“But it’s so pretty!”
“Pretty and expensive.”
“That’s usually how things go together.” I sigh longingly as I think about the beautiful coup glasses that I tried to convince Jack to buy for the bar. Each one is expensive, yes, but I’m sure we’ll have a signature cocktail for the pop-up, and they’d look perfect in them. “Think of it as an investment.”
“Well, it has to be that or the steak knives,” he says. “And I vote we go for the steak knives. There’s no point in serving top of the line protein if you don’t have the proper knives to cut it.”
“I mean, yeah. Or I could pay—”
“Absolutely not.” With the water at a rolling boil, he tosses in a portion of pasta, then turns to stir the tomato sauce. “Get some parm from the walk-in.”
I do as he asks, but cross my arms when I get back to the kitchen, unwilling to let this go. “Why not? It’s my money, not my family’s. I can invest a little in this too.”
“We’re working from my savings. That’s it.”
“Don’t be so stubborn. I want to help. “
His eyes soften as he takes out the pasta, setting it in a bowl graced with a dollop of tomato sauce. “You’re already helping. I get why you’re asking, but no.”
“Fine. I’ll see if I can get the glasses in exchange for promotion or something.” I watch him coat the pasta in more sauce, tossing it in the bowl with tongs. He finishes it with grated Parmesan cheese and a grind of pepper, plus a few torn basil leaves. “And I’ll put in the order for those knives.”
“Great.” He offers me a fork loaded up with a bite. “Here, try it.”
I take the fork from him, covering my mouth as I chew. My eyes widen at the burst of flavor. The pasta is perfect. Utterly fresh and toothsome, coated in a lightly scented tomato sauce.
