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If looking at him makes my stomach tingle, I don’t want to know how I’ll feel if he touches me.
“Daddy’s really good, June.” Tabby’s looking up at me with wide eyes, oblivious. “Sometimes we just need a different teacher.”
I bet there are a lot of things Duke York could show me. I blow out a breath. Since leaving Lily’s earlier, I’ve had more than a couple of inappropriate thoughts about him. I need to keep my head in the game.
I smile at Tabby and retreat to the stove. The meatballs are an excuse to step away from Duke. “I’m going to practice what you showed me first, Tabby.” When I get the nerve to make eye contact with him again, I can’t read the look on his face. “We’re making pasta,” I say to change the subject. “Tabby said you both like pasta. I made it with whole wheat flour. Complex carbs.”
I press my lips together, forcing myself to stop talking. Of course, they like pasta. Most people like pasta.
“You’re making dinner again.” It’s not a question, more like an observation.
“Yes.” I glance around the kitchen. There’s dough on the island and meatballs simmering on the stove. “Pasta.”
“Pasta, not from a box.”
“Pasta doesn’t start in a box, you know,” I inform him. “Someone puts it there.”
“Not someone, I bet.” Tabby hikes herself up on a kitchen stool. “A machine, probably.”
I nod. “You’re right. Probably a machine.”
“You’re going to make homemade pasta, though?” He drops a workout bag at the door and straddles a second stool. He studies the contents on the island in front of us with interest.
“Technically, Tabby made the dough.” I grin at her, and she nods, her head tilting up in pride. “And I’m going to use your pasta attachment to make the noodles.”
“My pasta attachment?” He sits up straighter. “What pasta attachment?”
The piece of equipment is behind me, and I snag it. “I found it in a drawer when I was searching for utensils. I hope that’s okay. Tabby has been showing me around, but I’ve been sort of just digging—”
“June.” He stops me and then softens his face into a smile. “It’s fine. You live here.”
Ugh, his smile is ridiculous. “It’s a pasta press.”
“It is?” He looks genuinely confused. “Huh.”
“It’s in your kitchen. You don’t know what it is?” I look around. “Is there anyone else who cooks here?”
“Nana cooks sometimes,” Tabby pipes up. “But she’s not very good at it.” Her face brightens up. “Like you’re not a good dancer!”
“Tabby…” Her father’s voice holds censure, but I crack up.
“She’s not wrong,” I say. “We are all special in our own way.” Duke presses his fingers to his eyes, like this conversation is giving him a headache, but he can’t hide his grin. “Does Nana live nearby?” I read he was from Canada, but his wife was from Philadelphia. Duke mentioned his mother-in-law was recovering from a broken leg.
“Yep. She lives in Haddonfield too.”
“That must be nice.”
“Do you know how that works?” Duke interrupts us, studying the attachment in my hand with a furrowed brow. I recognize the skepticism. I’ve already seen it on his daughter’s face. It’s doubtful they realize how similar their mannerisms are, but every time I see a similarity, it makes me happy because it means I’m getting to know them.
“I think I’ve got it,” I say. Lily is Italian, and we made lots of pasta by scratch. Her tools are older, not as high tech, but I feel confident. “Why don’t you help me put the dough in, Tabby?”
I can tell it surprises Duke how fast his daughter gets up to join me. We get caught up in the bustle of making the noodles, and Duke hangs out with us. He doesn’t say much, but I’m sure he smiles at Tabby at least once. I suggest we eat in the dining room, and Tabby treats it like an adventure. We make up our plates and head to the table. Like every other room in the house, this one is tasteful, but it’s not untouchable.
“How was everyone’s day?” I ask. Lily used to insist we eat dinner together, and she made sure we always modeled pleasant dinner conversation. The entire time I lived with her, from age ten until I went to college, other foster kids constantly cycled through the house. Dinnertime was a constant. No tech, no music, no television or distractions of any kind. We would sit together and talk. If we were in after-school activities and couldn’t make dinnertime, she would save us leftovers and sit with us, if she could. She said it was a time to reconnect.
Duke looks surprised. “Good?”
“That’s not really an answer,” I tell him. “Tell me more. It’s the first week of camp. How is that going?”
