“What?” I cock an eyebrow and lean against the dark red lime-washed wall, crossing my bad ankle over the good one and waiting for the insult.
His eyes make it back up the dress to meet mine, a deeper shade of blue in the restaurant’s moody light. “Devastating.”
I suck in my cheeks in an attempt to stop them from turning flame red and stare at a suddenly very interesting patch on the speckled-gray quartz floor.
He clears his throat and changes the subject immediately.
“Remind me again why you thought a cooking lesson would be romantic?” he asks, plastering on the smirk I am so much better at dealing with than whateverthatjust was.
I match his arrogant attitude. “It’s like a sport: it’s team building, and it shows how you can bounce off each other, follow instructions together and bend to each other.”
The last thing I’m going to do is tell him the real reason why I chose this place, just in case he uses it against me later. El Turo is a local institution, run by three generations of the Alberti family. It holds a special place in my heart because it was here that Yemi, Alice and I had our first dinner together after officially becoming flatmates. It’s not fully set in stone, but my current plan for thisproject involves using my local connections to offer experiences Bancroft would never even consider.
Bancroft’s arm flexes under his jumper as he pulls the door open. “Some people like losing control. Maybe you should try it for once.”
I lift an eyebrow at his faux-gentlemanly act as he gestures for me to go in first.
“What? Aren’t you still all weak and injured?” He purses his lips pitifully at me.
“Thank you for your concern.” I use my good foot to kick him in the shin as I walk past him and take way too much pleasure in hearing him trying to suppress a grunt, wiping the pout off his stupid lips. I flick my hair as I enter the room. “But I’m healing fast.”
Following behind me, he leans down over my shoulder and holds his lips near my ear. “Who’s the sadist now?”
His warm breath causes a jolt of electricity to run down my body as I head through the door.
The shiny, distinctly Italian kitchen is filled with people who have signed up for the same class, mostly women and a few men who look considerably less enthusiastic. Maybe they thought they would be among the actual restaurant chefs in the front kitchen, but this space is reserved for weekly classes. A couple of our classmates glance at me and then do a double take at the tall, lean man shadowing me through the door. By the looks of it, all the women want to be on him and their escorting men want to kill him. My chest prickles as some of our classmates briefly give me the once-over.
I instinctively hunch over, wondering whether they can sense the inherent loneliness and fear-of-dying-alone-ness that radiates off me like a flickering lightbulb. Shame and guilt rise like bile as I scan the intrigued crowd, frantically looking for the class chef. A cheery sun-kissed face meets my eye and gives me a warm and open crescent-moon smile.
“Welcome!” she shouts. “I’m Chef Giada!” She holds out her tanned, calloused hands and pulls us both in for a joint hug, squeezing Bancroft’s body toward mine like flower stems in a clenched fist. My face is smushed against his chest. Yep, even under the soft cashmere it is still as rock solid as it was the other day. I can hear his heart pounding and try to count the beats to distract myself. As Giada finally releases us and spins around to the rest of the class, I take a deep breath and brush my hands down my dress, avoiding eye contact with Bancroft. “Everyone, this is our final couple of the evening: Grace and Eric.”
It’s true there are two of us, but there is something about the emphasis oncouplethat makes me bristle. Bancroft shifts his weight from one foot to the other without saying anything. The awkwardness between us is so palpable you could pluck a piece of it and eat it like an apple.
“OK!” continues Chef Giada, herding us to the last empty kitchen island and handing us striped navy-and-white aprons to match the rest of the class.
“What was that? That weird shuffle,” I ask Bancroftout of the corner of my mouth, struggling to successfully tie the knot in the back of my apron.
He throws the neck loop of his apron over his head and ties a quick knot without breaking eye contact.
“I could tell you wanted to say something but we are meant to be experiencing this class as though it’s a real date.” He creases his eyes, studying me as I continue to create a neat little bow, shifting my shoulders to get a better angle. “We can’t just announce we’re here for romance reconnaissance,” he says under his breath, emphasizing the R sounds.
“Right.” I nod and bite my bottom lip in concentration.
“Oh my God, can you just—” He grabs my shoulder and twists me so my back is to him, batting my hands out of the way. I place my palms on the cold edge of the island and my heart pounds as he undoes the strings of the flaccid half bow at my lower back.
He curls the string around his knuckles and lingers for a split second as I feel an unsteady breath on the back of my neck. A familiar heaviness settles in my stomach at the proximity as I resist leaning into it. But before I even have the chance to, he knots the string together properly with a tight tug at my waist. “There, one day I’ll teach you how to tie a knot properly,” he says to the back of my ear, causing a shot of electricity to run straight down my spine.
“Thanks,” I say quietly over my shoulder, giving a nervous laugh and polite smile to the four other couples who have all been watching this exchange withunreadable expressions. The island is relatively small, so when Bancroft moves from my back to stand beside me the sheer mesh on my shoulders and the soft wool on his arm lightly brush against each other. His scent lingers under my nose; the citrus, woody notes mix with the smells of garlic and rosemary in a way I want smothered on a piece of freshly baked focaccia. I shift to add space between us but then second-guess myself; a couple on a date wouldn’t be considering personal space.
Chef Giada claps her hands to gain everyone’s attention. “On the menu tonight: El Turo’s famous Pasta alla Vodka with Homemade Linguine. Let’s start with a couple of key ingredients in every Italian dish, garlic and tomato paste!”
The freshly sharpened knife zings as I slide it out of its plastic holder and begin crushing and chopping garlic on the beige wood chopping board.
After a few minutes, she adds, “If you could also please grab a saucepan from the rack and we can begin boiling our water.”
Midway through a clove I look up at the pans hanging above us from a curled iron rack. Bancroft beats me to it, reaching over, causing his jumper to ride up slightly, giving a glimpse of his lower stomach muscles. I grip the knife handle harder and blink to shake myself out of the trance as he unhooks the handle of the stainless-steel pan from the rack. Noticing the garlic bulb I’ve been pulling cloves from has rolled off the counter onto the floor, I lean down to grab it. But as I pull up from thefloor and turn back to the chopping board, I collide with Bancroft’s constricting torso as he places the saucepan on the hob with a crash and an oomph.
“Fuck!” he exclaims so loudly the couple on the far side of the room notices; his knuckles are white around the handles of the pan as he bends over the counter.
