“You ordered pizza?” I ask, raising an eyebrow.
“No, we’re making pizza.” He gestures towards the kitchen.
I follow his movement, my eyes landing on the counter. It’s covered with everything needed to make pizza: dough, flour, sauce, cheese, and every possible topping known to man.
The effort he’s put into this makes me smile despite myself.
“If I had known we were doing this, I wouldn’t have worn such a nice blouse,” I say, thinking about how my top will probably have flour all over it by the time we’re done.
“I’ll get you a shirt,” Nash replies and runs upstairs, returning with a band tee in his hand.
“Thanks,” I say, taking it from him.
“Bathroom is down the hall,” he gestures.
I duck into the bathroom and change my blouse for the tee, the fabric soft against my skin. It’s loose and comfortable, smelling faintly of him.
When I come back, Nash looks me over, nodding in approval.
“Looks good on you,” he says.
I fight the urge to blush and join him at the counter, looking over the ingredients.
We start working the dough, flour dusting our hands. He’s surprisingly skilled at it, movements sure and practiced, and I watch him with curiosity.
“My mom and I used to do this when I was a kid,” he says, a softness to his voice. “Pizza Fridays. Just the two of us.”
“Must’ve been nice,” I reply, surprised by the glimpse into his past.
He nods, a fond smile playing at his lips. “Yeah. She raised me on her own. We didn’t have a lot when I was growing up, but she always found a way to make things special.”
The sincerity in his words shifts something in me, and I find myself wanting to know more. “Sounds like you were close. Do you see her often?”
“Not as much anymore. She married my stepdad a few years ago. They live a couple hours from here now, but we still talk all the time,” he says, then adds, “What about you? Any family food traditions?”
I laugh, attempting to form my dough into anything that looks remotely pizza-shaped.
“Not really. We were more of a Chinese takeout family. My parents are both doctors, so getting all of us at the dinner table at the same time was pretty rare.”
“You didn’t want to follow in their footsteps?” he asks, forming his dough into a perfect circle. “Do the doctor thing?”
“They wanted me to, but I knew it wasn’t for me. I’ve wanted to be a lawyer for as long as I can remember. Plus, I could argue with a brick wall,” I say, giving him a small smirk.
Nash is already spreading the sauce on his pizza when he looks over at my handiwork to find that I can’t work this dough without it ripping.
“I’m about to argue with this dough,” I huff.
He laughs and moves to stand behind me.
“Here. Let me show you.” He runs his hands down my forearms until they rest on top of mine and starts working the dough.
His touch is gentle, his tone soft.
“You’ve gotta be patient with it,” Nash says, moving my hands in slow, confident circles.
It should be awkward, but it isn’t. The flour dusts our knuckles, and I try not to notice the way his chest presses into my shoulder blades or how natural it feels to have him this close, guiding me.
The moment is charged, silly and intimate all at once. He looks at me over my shoulder, his lashes dark and low. “See? Not so hard once you get the hang of it.”
