“Come on.”
“Wait, right now?”
“Yeah, let’s go.”
Fuck.
Oh, sure. Lying to Crybaby about wanting to cook for Alistair was a good idea. It was such a great idea that Noah was missing out on the start of what was going to be an awesome party with his favorite DJ to put on a stupid apron and learn how to make pasta from scratch.
Ugh.
He couldn’t tell her he wanted to question Frida about who Uncle Patrick had been banging to possibly suss out another suspect for Jason Carbone’s murder.
So he’d lied.
And now here he was, trying to fake interest in Crybaby pouring out a bunch of flour and eggs all over the kitchen counter.
“See, you make, like, a little volcano, okay?” Crybaby was actually smiling. It was weird. “Then we put the eggs into the volcano—”
“Right here on the counter?”
“Yeah.”
“And you want me to… what?” Noah stared.
“Take the fork and you start whisking the flour into the eggs. Slowly.”
Noah made a face, but did as he was told. Some of the egg splashed out and landed on his shirt right above the line bib of his apron, prompting a frustrated groan.
“I told you, fuckin’ slowly,” Crybaby scolded. “You wannaslowlybring in the flour, okay?”
“Why are we making pasta?” Noah groaned again when more egg spilled out. He steadied his hand and managed to keep the egg inside the walls of the flour pile. “Couldn’t we start with, like, boiling potatoes or something?”
“Because pasta is one of Alistair’s favorite things to eat.”
“Look at you! Helping me get nice and cozy with the boss.” Noah laughed. “I’m touched.”
“Yeah, well. Don’t say I never did anything for you. Okay, in a second, you’re gonna drop the fork and start kneading the dough.”
“With what?”
“With your hands.” Crybaby wiggled her fingers at him.
“Oh, no.” Noah set the fork down and held up his hands. “Do you have any idea how much I pay for a manicure?”
“Too much?”
“No fuckin’ way am I sticking my hands in that mess.”
“Noah. Knead the goddamn dough.”
Noah groaned as loudly as he could. “God, this had better be some fuckin’ amazing pasta.” With a grimace, he poked at the blob of gooey dough with the very tips of his fingers. He was trying to move it with as little physical contact as possible.
“Now, you need to fold it over and keep working in some of the flour. Come on. Get in there.” Crybaby scowled. “It’s not going to bite you.”
“It’s fucking gross, okay?” Noah had no choice but to sink his fingers in to properly knead the dough, and he grimaced. As he went on, the dough got less sticky, and it was easier to handle.
“There!” Crybaby scoffed. “Was that really so hard? You big fuckin’ baby.”
