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“Let it go, Dani,” I mutter softly to myself. “He’s not coming back. You have to forget about him.”
It’s easier said than done. Love is a feeling you can’t turn on and off as you please. It lives inside you as vital to your being as every organ in your body.
I hastily turn away from the mirror, hurrying out into the kitchen.
The scent of the pasta Ansel is making permeates the air. It smells amazing and my stomach rumbles to life.
“Good shower?”
“Huh?” I squeak, freaking out that he heard my moans.
“You were in there a while.” He turns his back, stirring the pasta in a pot.
“Oh, yeah.”
I hop up on the counter near him, and he tosses a grin my way. “Want to help?”
I give him a look. “Have you forgotten the bread incident?”
“No, but I think you can handle grating cheese, right?”
I eye the grater. “Uh … possibly, but I also might scrape my fingers off.”
He shakes his head. “Just try.”
I jump down and grab the block of fresh cheese, grating it over the bowl he set out.
“How much do you need?”
“About half.”
While I grate the cheese he adds olive oil into a bowl and squeezes fresh lemon juice in as well. After adding a dash of pepper he takes the cheese from me and stirs it all together.
“Grab the bowls. Once I drain this it’s ready.”
Standing on my tiptoes I reach for the bowls, getting them down and setting them on the counter.
He drains the pasta in the sink and then adds the mixture onto the warm pasta, stirring it around before dishing out a serving for each of us. He grabs the bread from the oven, perfectly toasted and not at all burnt, and cuts us each a slice. He sprinkles some olive oil and salt on top.
“This smells yummy.” I inhale the heavenly scent of lemon.
“I hope it’s good. I picked some things from the store I thought sounded good and put them together.”
We sit down at the table by the window, looking out into the darkened night at the beacon that’s the Eiffel Tower lit up in all its glory.
I swirl my pasta around my fork, taking a bite. “Mmm,” I hum, flavor exploding across my tongue, “this is delicious.”
“Thanks, Meadows.” He takes a bite himself. “Damn, I’m good.”
I laugh. “Don’t get too cocky now—you never know, you could burn something next time.”
“I’m not you, Meadows,” he jokes with a playful grin.
Feel something for him. Anything. You can do it. It’s time to move on.
“I’m so glad you can cook. We’d be screwed.”
“Face it, you’re lucky to have me.”
