I watch in a trance as he works, like this is his second nature. It looks so effortless for him. “I hate how good you are at this.”
He grins. “Friendly reminder that it is my job.”
I roll my eyes. “Yeah yeah.”
Reid smiles, warm and bright, and I melt a little. He reaches a hand out, gently cupping my chin, and for a moment, I think he’s going to kiss me right here in the middle of an Italian pasta class. He stares at me, I hold my breath, and he waits so long I get lightheaded. With a soft smile,he brushes a thumb on my cheek like he’s wiping away stray flour.
When the dough is wrapped in plastic wrap and resting on the counter, our station and hands both cleaned up as we wait to cut it, Reid sets a sharp-looking knife and wooden cutting board in front of us, topping the board with ripe red tomatoes. I, in a sudden urge to prove myself as on par with him, grab the knife and start slicing the vegetable. At the sound of the knife thudding against the cutting board, Reid looks up from where he’s setting a big, silver pot on the burner at our station.
“What are you doing?” he asks slowly.
“Cutting tomatoes.” I bite my bottom lip as I line the knife up with the tomato and slice off an uneven piece. Reid cringes next to me.
“Why?”
“To show you that you are not the only one who’s good at cooking.”
Another lopsided slice. A dramatic sigh from Reid. “Jeez, Jane, give me that. You’re going to hurt yourself.” He gently pries the knife from my fingers and bumps me with his hip so I step to the side.
“Why does no one have any confidence in my cooking abilities?”
“Well for starters you almost just chopped off your thumb.”
I blow out a sigh to keep from crying instead. Absolutely no one has any faith in me, yet I somehow keep getting asked to do more and more things. And getting backhanded comments in the process.
The sound of a knife hastily zipping across a cutting board drags my attention back to the present. Back to Reid as his broad hands quickly slice the carrots faster than I ever would’ve been able to.
“Oh my god, Reid.”
He looks up at me, a stray strand of dark hair falling over his forehead. “What?”
“How did you do that so quickly?”
He smirks, grabbing another tomato from the basket. “Years of practice. Also training at culinary school.”
“No wonder you took the knife from me. I’d be nowhere near close to done with that.”
“No, I took the knife from you because I don’t want to have to Google where the nearest hospital is for stitches when you inevitably draw blood.”
“Why does no one believe in me?” I blurt out. I immediately wish I could take the words back as the mortification of the admission burns through my chest. Reid slowly lowers the knife, something shifting in his gaze. The amusement makes way for something softer. Concern maybe?
“What do you mean?”
I lean a hip against the counter and look down at my apron, fidgeting with the tie so I don’t need to meet his gaze as I lay it all on the line. “I just mean that everyone puts lofty expectations on me, but when I put my all into it, no one ever thinks I do anything well enough.”
“Like what?”
“Like making the dessert for Kate’s shower. My mom said it was a huge honor and I had to take it seriously, but then told me the day before that if I ruined everything Kate would never forgive me.” Reid blows out a breath beside me, but I trudge ahead, somehow feeling lighter with each word that leaves my lips. “Kate said she asked Lydia to be her maid of honor because she can handle more, yet I’m somehow the one doing everything. And everything I do for Lydia she somehow manages to find fault with.” I gesture to the cutting board between us and the pile of diced red tomatoes on it. “Even you didn’t trust me to chop tomatoes.”
Reidsets the knife on the cutting board and wipes his hands on his apron. His jaw is set now as she takes me in. Then he steps close enough that I catch his lemon and rosemary scent. I breathe it in unabashedly, the smell enough to relax my nervous heart.
“I didn’t take the knife away because I think you’re incapable. I just didn’t want you to get hurt.”
“How do you know I would’ve gotten hurt?”
A hint of a smile touches his lips. “You weren’t curling your fingers.”
I tilt my head. “What do you mean?”
