Bianca nudged me aside and took the crank while I guided her hands, helping her with the speed and tension. I lovedwatching her as she concentrated, taking her time as she rolled the pasta.
“You’re a natural,” I said.
She looked up at me, locking her eyes with mine. “Maybe you’re just an excellent teacher,” she muttered.
“Maybe I am…” I whispered as I stared into her eyes.
God, what I’d give to feel them against mine, I thought to myself, and almost went in to find out when the oven timer went off.
“Cookies are ready,” she said, tearing her eyes from mine and grabbing the oven mitts.
“Okay, I have a confession,” she said, watching me dump the fresh noodles into the water. “I’m a bit of a disaster at cooking.”
“Is that why you’ve only made things in the microwave?” I asked.
“Yes, because I once set off the fire alarm while making scrambled eggs.”
I couldn’t help but let out a laugh. “How is that even possible?”
“I got distracted. I was reading something, and suddenly there was smoke and my roommate was screaming. It wasn’t my finest moment.”
“What were you reading that was so all-consuming that you forgot your eggs?” I asked.
“It was a research paper on ACL recovery protocols.”
I looked at her, shaking my head. “You are such a nerd.”
“Uh-huh, okay, pasta guy.”
“Um, that is a skill. Can you grab some plates?” I asked.
I was about to turn around to grab something at the same time Bianca went to reach for the plates and we collided against one another, her back right against my chest. Immediately, I reached out to steady her.
“Sorry,” we both said simultaneously, only neither one of us moved.
I could feel the warmth of her through my shirt; I could smell the scent of her shampoo, something citrusy, and I loved the way she fit perfectly in the space between my arms. My hands rested on her hips, holding her steady.
She turned her head slightly, her face inches from mine. Her lips parted as if she were about to speak, but no sound emerged. I watched as her eyes dropped to my mouth, only for a second, but I’d still seen it.
The oven timer let out a shrill beep, and the two of us sprang apart as if we’d been caught by her father.
“The pasta,” she cried.
“Right,” I said, waiting for her to move out of my way so I could drain the pasta.
“Should we eat here, at the island?” Bianca asked while I plated our pasta.
“Probably a good idea,” I said, feeling hyperaware of the space between us.
I sat on the far end, while she sat in her usual seat, with just enough space between us to allow things to calm down. We both twirled our forks into the pasta, each of us taking a bite at the same time.
“Oh, my god,” Bianca murmured.
“Good?” I questioned.
“Callahan, this is stupid good. Like an orgasm in my mouth. How dare you be a hockey player instead of a chef.”
I watched as she closed her eyes, my heart beating at her comment.
