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Knowing Tristan has watched my videos has heat rushing through me, but I push those electrical currents to the side. “I learned a long time ago that if I can teach my subscribers something, add in a little spice or drama, then end with a positive note, they respond well. The longer they watch, the more money I make.”
“How many have you outlined so far?”
I bite my lip and turn the pages in my spiral. “Since we’ve been here? I’ve written down about fifteen ideas. That’s about two weeks worth of content.”
“See, being here wasn’t a complete waste of your time.”
“I guess you could say that, but I’ll have more than enough catching up to do once I’m back. I’ll have to hit it hard and hope the algorithm doesn’t hate me.”
“I’m sure you’ll be fine.”
When Tristan’s phone rings, he immediately picks it up. His back straightens, and his jaw clenches as he paces in front of the lawn chair.
I’m starting to sweat because there’s hardly any breeze, so I let him know I’m going inside. He gives me a head nod and continues his conversation.
Five minutes later, Tristan enters as I’m sitting at the table chugging water. The humidity here is deadly, and the last thing I need is to get dehydrated and have to be rushed to the emergency room. Apparently, it’s very easy to do in Florida.
I spend the better half of the afternoon planning, lost in my own world. Eventually, Tristan begins pulling things out of the kitchen cabinets. Curious, I sit on the barstool and watch him.
“What are you making?” I ask.
He gives me a side grin. “My mama’s lasagna.”
“Homemade?”
“Yeah. Come on, I’ll teach you.”
I hop off the stool and wash my hands before standing beside him. He smells so damn good, and I have to force myself not to move closer. Tristan glances at me. “Did you hear me?”
I shake my head. “Sorry, I got distracted.”
I leave out the part that he was to blame as he wipes down the counter.
“So you’ll crack those two eggs into the bowl and stir them together vigorously with this fork.” He hands it to me.
I carefully grab them and tap one against the side of the counter. It doesn’t do the job, so I smash it a little harder until it breaks open and pieces of the shell go inside the bowl. “Shit.”
“It’s okay. Just pick them out,” he tells me patiently.
“You know I’m terrible at this. Not sure why you keep giving me chances,” I admit, making sure I got every piece of rogue shell out of the mix.
“It’s because I don’t give up on people. I’ll teach you everything I know.” Tristan winks, and butterflies swarm in my stomach.
I do the other one without messing it up, then vigorously mix them together.
Tristan opens the flour and pulls out a huge measuring cup, then fills it nearly full.
“I’m going to slowly add this in your bowl. Keep stirring.” He moves closer, his arm touching mine as he incorporates the flour.
“We’re about to use our hands,” he says when I have a big soft ball of dough in the bowl. “You can dump it on the counter.”
“Really?”
He laughs, sprinkling flour on the flat surface. “Yeah, go ahead.”
After I do, he places his strong hands in the dough and shows me how to knead it. He takes my hand, flipping it over, and runs his finger along my palm.
“You’ll use this part and push down.” Tristan meets my eyes, and I get lost in them.
There are so many unspoken words that I can’t be the only one who feels what’s streaming between us. He pulls away, splitting the dough in two. The way he works it with his big, strong hands makes me jealous as hell, wishing he was touching my body instead.
“We’ll do this until it’s silky smooth.” The rasp in his voice has me squeezing my legs together.
“See,” he finally says after about five minutes. “It’s ready.”
“Amazing,” I say as he wraps it in plastic and places it in the fridge. “Oh, why’d you do that?”
“To let it rest. If you don’t, it’ll be a disaster. We’ve had enough of those in the kitchen this trip.”
I playfully swat at him, and he chuckles. “I had no idea so much went into lasagna. Makes me appreciate each time I’ve eaten it.”
“Absolutely. Kinda funny how that works. It’s impossible to understand without getting the full picture.” Silence rings out. That sentence has so many more meanings than I’m sure he intended. “Time to start on our tomato sauce.”
“I don’t know what I did to deserve such a fancy meal.”
Tristan bursts into laughter. “You really have been in isolation for way too long.”
I give him a toothy grin. “Maybe you’re right.”
He chops onion and garlic, then swirls olive oil in a hot skillet before throwing it in. I take the spatula and move it around so it doesn’t burn. Then he adds the meat. Once it’s fully cooked and the house smells amazing, I turn off the stove.
