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“Made pasta?”
He laughs softly, like a sigh. “You’re such a pain in my ass,” he says. “I mean I’ve never done this... with someone else.”
I bite my lip, inordinately pleased. I sort of figured Christopher’s done just about everything there is to be done with someone else. “And?”
“And I like it.” I feel his swallow down his throat, his hands covering mine as we shape the dough together.
“I like it, too,” I tell him quietly.
“We can do it again,” he says. “Whenever you want.”
I stare down at our little masterpiece made up of a few humble ingredients, feeling like this night is a masterpiece itself, born out of a few humble ingredients of our own. Kindness, honesty, the work of seeing what we share, not what sets us apart.
A smile, bright and deep from the heart of me, lights up my face. “I’d like that.”
Christopher’s quiet, but I feel it like the wind on a sun-bright autumn day, soft and warm and real...
He smiles, too.
—
One giant plate of cacio e pepe and one very large glass of red wine later, I stand at the door, watching Christopher shrug on his coat and set his work bag over his shoulder.
Nervous energy flutters in my stomach. I pin my cheeks hard between my teeth so I won’t say again the same thing that started this all:
Stay. Please.
Christopher sets a hand on the dead bolt, unlocking it, then the door handle’s lock, too. I feel time slipping like sand between my fingers, the moment almost lost to me.
My hand shoots out and wraps around his wrist, stopping him. “Thank you,” I blurt, feeling that damn flush crawl up my throat to my cheeks.
Christopher lets go of the door, turning his hand until our palms slide together. “Thank you for letting me teach you something with only one threat to my delicate bits.”
I bite back a smile. “You got very condescending about the pasta roller.”
“You were very close to breaking it.”
I roll my eyes. “I was not.”
A smile tips his mouth. “Next time, I’ll show you how to make marinara. You can take out your frustrations with the world on tomatoes.”
Next time.
That tiny sentence hangs in the air. Christopher senses it, and so do I.
I don’t refute that “next time.” Because the truth is I want “next time.” I want to tell Christopher more about where I’ve been and what I’ve seen. I want him to tell me more stories about his coworkers and share more about the nerdy, philosophical beauty of his ethical investment approach. I want to sit beside him at the kitchen island and bump elbows, demolish a big bowl of pasta, and get a little tipsy on wine.
I wantmore. More touches like the way he touched me when he walked me home that night, the way he held me in the office today.More hugs like every hug tonight. More kisses like the one he pressed to my lips outside my apartment that made my knees weak and lit a fire inside me aching for whatever mysterious alchemy that keeps it burning bright.
But I don’t know how to ask for that. If I should.
If he wants what I do.
As if he senses my internal battle, Christopher tugs me close, until I land with a comfortingthumpagainst his chest.
It feels as wonderful as his hug when he first walked in.
And infinitely better.
