‘I’ve never even thought to make my own pasta,’ he says shakily as my thumb caresses the bare skin of his hip where his T-shirt’s ridden up. ‘Mom always just had like big ten-kilo bags in the cupboard. Feeding three football players always took a lot and I loved to eat.’
He’s watching intently as the small blades separate the dough into tagliatelle-width strands, but I’m more mesmerised by him. How grass-green his eyes are from right here. How his auburn lashes flutter over his cheeks. How soft his hair looks and how much I want to run my fingers through it. How much I really want to.
I take note of every single freckle that makes up the constellation across his nose and cheeks and even some down the side of his neck. I long to pull his T-shirt over his head to see how far they stretch.
The final piece of dough runs through the machine and we spend a peaceful few minutes hanging them strand by strand to dry out. I stir the sauce that’s coming together in a pan, and he opens the wine and pours us both a glass. We lean against the countertop, thighs and hips brushing as we sip, the homely aroma of a pasta dish coming together wrapping us up in a warm, cosy bubble.
I don’t want to speak. I don’t want to burst that bubble and let the outside world in. I want this evening to go on forever.
‘You’re thinking hard over there,’ he says in barely a whisper, almost like he wants to stay trapped in the bubble, too.
‘Just thinking about how much I’ve loved this week.’ I gulp down a mouthful of a delicious red and rest the glass down on the counter. That same hand now snakes around to the small of his back and creeps under his T-shirt. We’re in a bubble where the outside world can’t touch us…
He shivers and leans into my touch. With a hum, he replies. ‘Me, too.’
There’s nothing more to say. There’s no point pretending we’re talking about anything else but this domestic bliss we seem to have found.
The pan simmers away, the timer counting down on my phone until I can add the pasta to the salty water. I stroke soft circles on his back and his head gradually comes to rest against my shoulder. I don’t want to compare this to anything Jackson and I shared, because I don’t want his existence to intrude upon such a perfect moment, but it was never like this with him. Stolen moments are exciting– for a while– but they’re not this. Never this.
Because this, right here and now… I could stay here like this for the rest of my life.
The timer dings and we jump apart. I have to catch my wine glass as it tips and nearly falls to the floor. It’s for the best. I can’t be thinking about forevers. Not now and not with Caleb. It would be monumentally stupid to get involved with him. I nearly blew this season over one heartbreak– I cannot throw away the rest of it on another.
I add the pasta to the water and shred the meat into the sauce. He lingers a little distance from me, cheeks flushed and eyes careful. I tell myself it’s from the heat of the range cooker, but I hope it’s from what my touch did to his insides.
‘The pasta only needs four minutes as it’s so fresh, so we’re almost good to go. Would you grab the parmesan from the fridge?’
Something gnaws at my insides as I stir the strands of tagliatelle, but I won’t let it consume me. Instead, I focus in on making this last meal together perfect, tasting the sauce to make sure it’s seasoned enough and passing Caleb my favourite pasta bowls from the cupboard.
We share the meal at the little bistro table that takes advantage of the big window, with its incredible view of the vast London skyline. The sky is a blend of purples, pinks and oranges fading into the horizon as the sun sets. It’s beautiful, but nowhere near as beautiful as the man sitting opposite me.
We eat quietly, lost in the flickering of the candles I lit for ambience, which only makes this feel more and more like a date.
‘This is delicious,’ he says. ‘You’re such a good cook.’
‘Thank you,’ I say. ‘But you made the pasta.’
He laughs and blushes, which I enjoy enormously.
When we’ve both finished, he clears the table. I wash and he dries, putting each item away in its rightful place. It occurs to me that he now knows where everything belongs. His movements are precise and intentional, and I find it so fucking hot. Since when did this become more of a turn-on than sneaking around having sexy rendezvous with a forbidden lover? Hell if I know, but it has.
Back when I was running around town with Harper, I wouldn’t have cooked for Caleb or invited him to stay. I’d have got him drunk and fucked him. It would have been amazing and I’d have walked away without considering the collateral damage. There would have been nomoments, just a seriously great night together. Maybe not even the whole night. Then came Jackson, just when I started to want these kinds of things, and I realise now that he didn’t want them. Or perhaps he just didn’t want them with me.
So now I don’t trust myself to be silently feeling things for Caleb, never mind actually putting them out there for him to see and hear. I don’t want to want things. I don’t want him towant so much less with me than I want.
‘I should get to bed,’ he says in a low voice as he hangs up the tea towel. ‘We have an early start tomorrow.’
‘Yeah.’ I can’t think of anything else to say.
‘The car’s picking us up at five, so…’ He hovers in the middle of the lounge while I blow out the candles. The night is over.
‘Yeah,’ I repeat like an absolute idiot.
Say something.
My brain pleads with me, but my mouth still doesn’t move.
‘Well, goodnight, then.’ His face drops a little, the soft smile that’s been there all night leaving his face.
