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Casey hefted the big ceramic bowl. “What does that have to do with knife skills?”
“Nothing yet. But after I dunk the peaches in boiling water and then into the ice bath, I’ll slide off their skins and you’re going to slice them. Think you can manage?” Dev waggled his eyebrows.
Although slide and skin conjured up images hotter than the boiling water, Casey lifted his chin and gave Dev a wink. “Just watch me.”
Give Casey a specific task with a defined purpose and a measurable result and he had no problem, especially if he had a chance to practice. The ice-water bath was ready by the time Dev lifted the first of the peaches out of the hot water.
“Look at this.” Dev scooped the peach out of the bowl, and with a few swipes of his big, deft fingers, removed the skin and handed the peach to Casey. “Voila.”
“Wow. That’s amazing.”
“Same thing works with tomatoes. You never did that?”
“My father never trusted me near boiling water. Or tomatoes. Probably with good reason.” Casey set the peach on the cutting board. “How thin should the slices be?”
“Maybe a quarter of an inch or so?”
Casey eyeballed the peach, nicking its flesh at about a quarter of an inch and slowly carved off a neat section, rather proud of himself until he looked up and caught Dev’s dumbfounded expression. “What? You said a quarter of an inch.” He pointed with the tip of the knife. “That’s a quarter of an inch. Get a ruler and I’ll prove it.”
“I said a quarter of an inch or so. Rustic tarts, Casey, remember? There’s no need for pinpoint accuracy. I think these are freestone peaches, so split ’em in half and slice each half into six or so crescent-shaped sections, okay?”
Still inclined to be a little defensive, Casey muttered, “If you say so.” But he did as instructed, hoping Dev was serious about that or so and that Casey wouldn’t be judged on precision, because peaches were dang slippery and his sections were not identical by any stretch of the imagination.
But Dev just grinned and said, “Perfect. Now dump ’em in that bowl with a little lemon juice while we roll out the crust.”
Casey’s nerves returned as he squeezed half a lemon over the peaches. The only time he’d tried rolling out any dough in the kitchen at home, his father had yelled at him, taken the rolling pin to Casey’s backside, and ordered him to his room.
Get over yourself, Friel. Nothing else has been like Dad’s kitchen, so why should this?
Dev retrieved the dough from the fridge and, on the lightly floured marble counter, cut it into four parts with a bench knife. “I’ll wrap two of these up and stick ’em in the fridge while you roll that one out.”
“Right.” Casey’s hand trembled as he grabbed the rolling pin. I don’t even know where to start. Hoping for the best, he placed the rolling pin on the top of one dough ball and rocked it back and forth, making a little valley. The sight of the wooden cylinder cradled between two dough mounds… Gah! Why does everything in this damn kitchen make me think about sex?
“Casey?” Dev peered at him from across the bench, which didn’t help, since Dev was the main thing in the kitchen that made him think about sex. “Haven’t you ever done this before?”
He huffed out a breath. “Not really. I’m more or less a rolling pin virgin since the only other time I tried it, I never achieved”—heat rushed up his throat—“um…”
Dev lifted an eyebrow. “Completion?”
Casey let go of the rolling pin and flailed. “I’m sorry. I just don’t want to screw it up. I mean, the peaches smell really good. What if I ruin everything? I doubt even Randolph Scott will eat charred fruit tarts.”
“Don’t bet on it. But also, don’t worry about it. We’ve got the dough for four tarts. They’re not gonna be big.” He held up one palm. “About the size of my hand. If we mess up one, we’ve got three other chances to get it right.”
“It’s kind of you to say we, but I think we both know that any failures will be totally on my end.”
“Then let me help.” He motioned for Casey to move closer to the counter. “Put your hands on the balls and bear down. Press ’em down into a flatter disk.” Casey did, trying not to think about balls. Or bearing down. “Good. Now pick up the rolling pin.”
“I don’t know. That might be dangerous. Isn’t this the weapon of choice in most cartoon kitchen altercations? Maybe you should don a saucepan helmet, just to be safe.”
Dev grinned. “I’ll take my chances. Go ahead.”
Casey gingerly lifted the rolling pin, laid it on one of the dough disks, and moved it back and forth a couple of times with no apparent effect.
“Don’t be so tentative. Grab the handles in a tight, firm grip. Like you mean it.”
All these smooth round hard objects are giving me ideas that are so not appropriate for food preparation. Nevertheless, Casey took hold of the handles, forcing himself not to imagine how much better Dev’s cock would feel.
“Work from the center out. You don’t have to be shy. Quick, hard strokes. The dough likes it a little rough.” Dev moved behind Casey and placed his hands over Casey’s on the rolling pin. “Like this.”
