“That’s what I say,” the man replies with a wink in my direction. “Today we make ravioli and spaghetti,” he tells us, placing a bottle of red wine at our station. “Unlimited wine is included, so please enjoy.”
Gabriel doesn’t hesitate as he pours me a glass, then one for himself. I watch him swirl the wine slowly before bringing it to his nose, closing his eyes as he inhales then takes a sip—his throat working as he swallows.
My mouth goes dry because everything he does is just one big turn on. When his eyes open again, and a satisfied smile tugs at his lips, I quickly look away and mimic him, swirling my own glass.
“Good, right?” Gabriel asks softly.
I nod. “Very.”
His gaze doesn’t leave my mouth, and I’m positive he’s about to lean forward and kiss me when the instructor claps his hands together.
“Okay everyone, my name is Ramon, welcome to the best pasta making class in all of Italy. We start with the dough first using flour, eggs, and our hands—no machines because the best pasta is made with human touch. Yes?” Several heads nod.
Gabriel arches a brow at me as he ties my apron strings from behind, fingers brushing the bare strip of skin at my lower back.
“Touch, huh?” he murmurs near my ear.
I elbow him lightly. “Behave.”
“Never.”
I pour flour onto the wooden counter in a soft white mound. Ramon demonstrates forming a well in the centre before cracking the eggs inside. Gabriel copies him, but he makes the well too shallow and the egg immediately spills over the side.
“Gabriel,” I laugh as yolk creeps toward the edge of the table. “You’re supposed to keep it in the hole.”
“Story of my life,” he mutters dryly, trying to scoop flour back in.
I burst into laughter and he grins, completely unapologetic.
“Here,” I say, stepping closer. “Move.”
I reach in, guiding his hands and pushing flour inward with my fingers. My chest brushes his arm and his body stills in response.
“You’re very bossy,” he says quietly.
“And you’re surprisingly very bad at this.”
He leans close, “I’m good at other things.”
Heat rushes to my face as I glance around to see if anyone overheard him. The other couples and Ramon are laser focused on their own pastas, deep in conversation.
“We’re in public,” I hiss.
“For now.”
We start mixing the dough together, our fingers sliding through flour and egg. It’s so messy and sticky and way more intimate than it should be. At one point he traps my wrist, gently smearing a streak of flour across my cheek.
“Gabriel.”
“You had something right here,” he says innocently.
“Oh, did I?”
I dip two fingers into the flour and drag them slowly across his black t-shirt, leaving white streaks over his chest.
He looks down, then slowly back at me.
“That’s a dangerous game you’re playing, Red,” he says.
