“Rocco, can you please plate the food for table eight and bring it out while I finish this? Vin, Rocco will bring your food out in a moment.”
Vin and Rocco stare at each other for a full minute without speaking. I sigh. “Rocco? Please.”
Not taking his eyes off Vin, Rocco growls and takes a few steps backward before doing as I asked.
“That your boyfriend?”
“No,” I say. “Vin, you’re welcome to return to your seat.”
“Why? You don’t want me watching when you swap our your dough for some frozen gnocchi?”
I hold his gaze like a challenge, his eyes sparkling as he leans in, waiting for me to take the bait. Instead, I gesture to the kitchen sink. “Wash your hands.”
He blinks. “Why?”
“If you’re in the kitchen, you’re cooking. You’re going to help me make your gnocchi.”
He watches me for a moment, not responding. Finally, grumbling under his breath, he takes off his jacket and washes his hands, then joins me. “Alright. What do I do?”
“Combine the spinach puree with the dough.”
Frowning, he rolls up his sleeves. “How?”
I can’t help but steal a sideways glance as he reveals thick, strong veiny forearms. The temperature in the kitchen instantly rises 10 degrees.
Taking his hand, I push it into the bowl with the mix of puree and dough. “Just knead it gently.”
“Gently?” He squeezes a fistful of dough. “I don’t do gentle.”
“Gentle, Vin. Watch.” I slide my hand under his in the bowl and push my fingers into the dough so that the spinach puree pools in the holes. Then, I fold the dough over and push down until the puree oozes out. “See? Gentle. You try.”
He tries to replicate my action, but he’s too rough, shoving his fingers into the dough, splashing the puree. My mind blanks for a moment; I’m so jealous of the dough.
“Here. Follow me.” I slide between him and the counter and grab his wrists. “Both hands, please.”
“You want to hold my hand, princess?”
“Hands plural,” I say, pushing my hands and his into the dough bowl.
His chest is powerful and warm against my back, his strong arms around me, his big hands in mine. I allow his heavy body to press into me, grinding me into the edge of the counter.
I definitely don’t mind this.
“You always this bossy?”
He’s more than a full head taller than me, and wrapped around me like this, his chin is practically on my shoulder as he leans over to see what we’re doing.
“Only in the kitchen,” I say, lifting my eyes up to meet his.
The implication—that I’m not at all bossy in other ways—is not lost on him.
I turn back to the dough, but I can feel him watching me as I maneuver his hands into the dough.
“You do this a lot?”
When I turn to look at him questioningly, his mouth is an inch from mine. “Do what?”
“Bring strange men into your kitchen and rub food all over them.”
