Hot water steams around him as he scrubs, then he holds up his hands like a redneck surgeon. “Is there a towel?” His brows raise to the worn bill of his hat.
“On the wall.” I gesture with my forehead as I spread pepperoni in a growing circle.
The dispenser cranks out a long strand with a wave.
“Wait. Let me see.” I can’t help but picture the state of his nails.
Sawyer’s lips shift to the side, then thin as he holds up his fingers for my inspection.
“I know how to wash, Val.” His hips cock to show a flash of tanned skin below his shirt.
I’m not sure what’s more distracting, that or the bright white band of underwear that sneaks out from his low slung jeans.
Punk.
I squint extra long, staring at each clean cuticle. “Alright. Barely passed. Grab that dough and start rolling it out.” My elbow is the pointer this time at a row of tupperware tubs, each containing a weighed portion.
After sprinkling on the last of the cheese, I slide the finished pizza onto the conveyor oven to cook.
That’s when I see him awkwardly smearing the sticky mix into a haphazard starfish shape.
“Stop, stop, stop.” My palm lands on his wrist, pausing his movements. “Here. Add some flour.” I grab a hefty scoop and spatter it against the mess. “Mix that in, it keeps it from being tacky.”
His lower lip sticks out as he concentrates, folding and rolling the dough until it starts looking manageable again.
“How’s that?” Bright blue eyes blink widely over a crooked smile.
“Better. Now watch me.” I grab the one of the prepped tubs and dump the contents on the counter, quickly working it into a flat-ish round about the size of a dinner plate. “Do this.” In a few moves, I have an almost perfect circle, ready for sauce and toppings.
“Whew.” He lets out a low whistle. “You’re really good at this.”
I’ve finished before he gets it rolled out. “Hurry up, kid. It needs to cook still.”
“Sorry,” he grunts, the tip of his tongue poking out of the corner of his mouth. “I’ve never done this. You’d think as much as I like it, I’d know how to make it.”
That makes me snort. “You don’t cook at all? What are you gonna do when you get out on your own?” I know he’s the same age as Scott, so he has to be heading to college, or something.
“Oh, I’m stuck on the fuckin’ ranch.” He glowers at the square edges in front of him and tries to smooth them out. “But I can make things from frozen just fine. Lori does all the ‘from scratch’ stuff.”
I almost feel a little bad for him. I know the issues that Black Gulch has had the last few years. I get why Mason would encourage him to stay though, especially with everything going on.
“Well, you aren’t doing too bad. Shit, a bit of practice and you’d almost be hireable.” I pat his shoulder and push the sauce bucket closer.
It kills me a tiny bit watching how meticulously slowly he spreads it into even rings.
Whatever, it’s his.
“This one gets sausage and onions. Two handfuls of each.” I show him the order slip hanging from the edge of the rail.
He’s absolutely beaming when he steps away from the finished product. “How’d I do?”
So eager to please.
I guess he’s not all assholes and elbows now that he’s older.
“Pretty good, kid. Let’s get it in the oven.” I toss it on the conveyor and pull off the cooked pizza from the other end, sliding it into a box.
“Any more?” He bounces on his toes, reaching for another ball of dough.
