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Her friend says something in her ear and they both laugh obnoxiously.
“Is this table okay?” I ask him, coming to stand at the furthest one in the back of the classroom.
He nods and opens the bottom drawer on the cooktop, pulling out two folded aprons. “Ignore them,” he says, motioning with his head to Natalie, perched on top of her table, legs crossed like a lady. “She gets off on making others feel bad. She’s jealous of you.”
“Yeah, that’s what it is. Jealousy,” I scoff. Grabbing the apron and slinging it over my neck, I reach for the ties and pull them behind me. As I watch him put the apron on, I can barely keep a straight face, the strings barely meet around him.
“So, this is really a class where you cook? This is real? We eat . . .” I trail off, gaze flicking around the classroom until I see the menu board at the front. “Alfredo? We eat alfredo at ten in the morning?”
He chuckles, his laugh a sand-scratched rasp that warms my core. “Alfredo is kind of a weird choice, even for her. Most days we bake something, which I don’t mind at all,” he says, tapping his stomach.
I immediately recognize his attempt at mocking his weight, but I breeze past it. He might have been picked on as a kid, and while he stands taller than anyone else in the room and is the most handsome teenage boy I have ever met, he probably still feels like that insecure boy inside, and uses humor to deflect.
“Did you have to take this class? Or did you choose to?” Looking around the room, my suspicions are confirmed: There are a hell of a lot more girls than boys in this class.
He shrugs, the tips of his ears reddening. “I don’t mind cooking. My mom is a good cook and makes me help her sometimes. Plus, it’s an easy A, and like I said, free cake mid-morning.” He holds out a broad hand to me. “I’m Emmett, by the way. Emmett Owens.”
I grasp his hand with mine. “Jenna. But you already knew that.”
“Jenna Alissandria Watkins.”
“The one and only.”
He looks at the recipe card as I glance around the station.
Mrs. Nabb saunters up and down the aisles in between the tables, educating on temperature control as I grab the carton in front of us and flip the top open, revealing a dozen eggs. “Why are there eggs if we aren’t baking?”
Emmett holds the recipe card so I can see. “Apparently egg yolks go in homemade alfredo sauce. And we’re making noodles from scratch, too.”
I nearly drop the carton on the table. “We’re making our pasta? You weren’t kidding when you said we cook. Doesn’t she know you can buy alfredo in a jar? Pasta comes in boxes, too. Much easier that way.”
“Jarred sauce won’t fly with Mrs. Nabb.” He playfully elbows me in the side. “Come on, this will be fun.”
The teacher starts to holler out step-by-step instructions as Emmett bends down to pull a large tub out from the cabinets below us.
He flips the top open to reveal enough flour to feed the nation, and hands me a measuring cup. “Want to scoop us two cups of flour?”
I gather my mop of blonde curls in my hands and push it to the top of my head, twisting until it’s semi-tamed and securing it with a pony. A few tendrils fall from the bun around my face, and I blow out a puff of air to move them away. I take the cup from his hand, pausing a moment to see if he steps to the side so I can move closer to the flour bin. He does, barely, so I move closer to him, feeling the softness of his pullover brush the skin on my arms.
All my nerve endings are on fire being so close to him. He smells amazing. I don’t think he’s wearing cologne; he smells more like fresh laundry and soap. He’s probably one of those people who naturally smells good, who can go three days without showering or brushing their teeth and still smell better than me.
I pull the first cup of flour out of the bin and look around the table for the bowl. “Oh crap, can you grab us a bowl?”
Emmett chuckles, tapping a large finger on the table in front of me. “Drop it right on the table, we kind of mix it all in a little pile.”
I pause for a moment, thinking he’s playing a prank on the new girl, and I shouldn’t dump the ingredients on the tabletop. When he doesn’t budge, I do as he says, dumping out two cups of flour on the counter.
“Do you cook?” he asks, capping the flour bin and tucking it back out of sight.
“Well, I thought I did until I found out you can make alfredo without opening a jar. This whole concept is crazy to me. I’ve been to six schools in the last four years, and this is the first time I’ve heard of a Home Economics class.”
“But you plan to stay here?” He sounds almost hopeful as he takes the lead, sprinkling what I think is salt on the pile of flour and cracking a few eggs, adding them to the mess.
I glance around the room, making sure other students are doing things the same way and that this isn’t some weird hazing ritual.
“That’s the plan.” And if most people here are as cool as Emmett, I could see myself wanting to stay in the same place for once.
He pushes up the sleeves of his thick overshirt, revealing brawny forearms that again, are too muscular for the average teenager.
