AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“Sure, babe. Sure.” He kisses my cheek and leaves me standing there in a mush of goo. “I’m going to change.”
“Then you can come and help,” Anna calls. Her body language says we need to hurry as though there’s a surprise party and the guest is about to arrive.
“I made the sauce.” Ma raises her hand. “But I left the recipe for you, Valentina, and we’ll show you that later. Let’s get it heated though.” She pours the sauce into a waiting pot on the stove.
“Oh, Giada, it smells wonderful,” Anna says.
Our mas talk about my ma’s sauce and her grandmother’s recipe that keeps getting tweaked. They discuss how, back in the day, you couldn’t change a recipe at all but how all their ancestors probably changed them through the years anyway.
I’m busy scooping out potatoes and my mind is on so many things that I don’t notice Dom’s rejoined us until his chest hits my back. His hands extend around me, taking the potato and the spoon, showing me how to get the most potato out. Shivers run up my spine and I close my eyes from the scent of his cologne.
“That way you get it all,” he whispers.
“Dominic? You know how to make gnocchi?” Ma asks, leaning her hip on the counter, watching him teach me.
“He’s quite the cook,” I say. “All different cuisines.”
“Really? When do you find the time?” Ma asks.
“I’m a night owl.” He’s lying. The truth is he practices on weekends when he’s counting the minutes until Monday morning. His voice is low in my ear and I can’t help but let myself fall back into his strong chest as he says, “Then you take the potatoes and add some flour, egg yolks, and salt.”
He manipulates my hands to crack an egg, and the egg white drips from our hands.
“Now you need to wash,” Anna the pseudo health department inspector lectures.
We wash our hands while Anna takes over kneading the dough.
“Ma, that’s the fun part. Let Val,” Dom says.
Anna smiles at him as though he’s the Pope, and she steps aside. Dom resumes his position behind me, his hands on mine. Is he doing this for our mas’ sakes? Because if so, I’d like to ask them to move in with us so I can do this every night.
We roll the dough out, and he cuts it into small pieces.
“I have the water going,” Ma says.
“Perfect.” He runs the small nuggets of dough along a fork. “This is for the sauce to soak into the gnocchi more.” Again, he uses my hands as though they’re his, directing me to do what’s needed. He puts a handful on a plate, and we turn toward the stove where the water boils. “Now we go over to the water. Heavily salted?”
I’m surprised our mas aren’t offended. But they nod, watching us as though we’re the latest romance movie.
“You drop them in, and when they float, we’re going to take them out.” He hands the plate to me.
When I drop in the noodles, hot water splashes on me, and I draw back my hand.
“Be careful.” He takes my hand and inspects to make sure I’m not hurt.
Our eyes catch for a moment. I want to kiss him. Tell him thank you for taking over. That cooking with him is ten times better than with our mas.
“They’re ready,” he whispers, interrupting my little bubble of thoughts that are a jumbled mess.
He uses a shallow strainer to remove the pasta from the water. Then he pours the sauce and forks a gnocchi before putting it in front of my mouth. As I slide the pasta off the fork, our mas sigh. It’s not the pasta I have an appetite for right now though—it’s my husband.
Who knew that could be such a problem?
