‘But I do love a week in the factory, and this has been a good one. I know I’ve already said this but thank you for letting me stay. It’s been so nice to come home in the evenings and properly switch off from day-to-day work.’
‘I’ve loved having you here. You’re welcome any time.’
I mean it. I mean it so much I can’t even begin to think about it deeply. I’ve never cooked for someone like this, put effort and care into making each evening the perfect relaxing occasion– pairing wine, adjusting mood lighting, making everything from scratch. I certainly didn’t do it for Harper when he lived here, and Jackson never stepped foot in the place.
‘Thanks. I’m going to take a shower. Do you need help with anything?’ Caleb asks.
‘Take your time. I can put you to work when you’re ready.’
I pull out all the ingredients I’m going to need for dinner. Luckily, the meat has been roasting in the slow-cooker all day, so when I take it out, it falls off the bone. My mouth waters at the smell as I set up a station to make pasta, before slipping into the pantry to analyse the wine rack for the perfect bottle of red to cook with and another to consume with dinner.
I take my time, reading the labels and thinking about what will work. I’m definitely not waiting to hear the water go off and then for his feet to pad down the hallway to the kitchen.
It’s pure coincidence that I’m weighing out the flour when he joins me on the opposite side of the island, his damp hair curling around his neck and brow in a way that makes my balls tighten.
‘You fancy helping?’
I’m in so much trouble.
‘Of course, put me to work.’
Don’t tempt me.
He washes his hands, before stepping up by my side.
‘Okay, so we’re going to need to make a little well in the middle of the flour for the eggs and then we’ll crack them in and meld it all together.’
‘That easy?’ he asks.
‘That easy,’ I confirm. I don’t tell him this is just the start of what can feel like an endless process to get it right, not when his eyes light up with the excitement to learn. ‘Make sure you keep the flour walls intact. It makes it easier for it all to come together.’
I crack three eggs into the nest he’s built. He’s quick to get stuck into the messy mixture because he’s careful and takes instruction well. He kneads the dough, and I try not to watch the muscles in his strong forearms flex and twitch. I try not to think of the fantasy I had of pressing up against him. I force myself to stand back and let him do it on his own, because I know that if I put my hands on top of his hands, then I’m definitely fucking him tonight. Probably before we’ve even finished making dinner.
I blink to clear my head and before I know it he has a golden mound of dough ready to start to shape.
‘Okay, break it into four and then we’ll roll it out manually into ovals, before we pass it through the machine.’ He gets on with that whilst I set up the pasta attachment on my KitchenAid.
I turn my back for two seconds and the ovals he’s rolled out are pizza length and thickness. I chuckle to myself, before reaching round to stop him rolling the dough out to almost a see-through density.
‘Too thin?’ he asks.
‘A little.’ I gesture an inch between my thumb and first finger and a grin stretches across his face as he laughs.
‘Where did you learn how to do this?’ he asks.
‘I did a course,’ I say.
‘You’re kidding.’
‘Just a one-day thing at a fancy restaurant in the city. I won it in a silent auction at a charity event.’
‘And then you practised,’ he says. It’s a statement, and I bask in the warmth of his admiration.
‘You haven’t tasted it yet,’ I say.
‘You do everything well,’ he says and then blushes.
I move closer to show him the right thickness for the pasta dough and realise I have rested my hand on his hip as he feeds it through the machine.
