And I was doing pretty well, too.
Until that damn email.
Now I’m in her kitchen with my sleeves pushed up and the groceries I had delivered earlier in the week for this exact lesson lined up on the counter.
She stands on the other side of the island, hair still damp from her shower, lounge clothes soft and comfortable—and so easy to just slide off in order to reach soft skin.
She’s trying to look calm, but she isn’t fooling me. I put both laptops away so she’s not reminded, but I can still feel her thinking about the email.
I’m determined to get her mind off of it and get her relaxed. Whatever it takes.
“Okay,” I say, keeping my voice light. “We’re doing something simple. No fancy nonsense. You’re going to learn three things: how to salt water, how not to burn garlic, and how to taste your food.”
A tiny, reluctant huff of laughter escapes her. It’s not much, but it loosens something in the room.
Good.
“I think I have that last one down.”
“Ah-ah.” I wag my finger. “I will be the judge of that.”
I set out what I bought: garlic, a bunch of parsley, lemon, good olive oil, a small container of red pepper flakes, sea salt, and as much as it pains me, store-bought pasta. We’ll save fresh pasta for another lesson.
“Spaghetti aglio e olio,” I say, presenting the ingredients with a flourish. “Garlic and oil. It’s the dish you make when you’ve got nothing but basics, but you still want something delicious and comforting.”
She watches my hands as I line things up. “That’s… it?”
“That’s all you’ll be cooking anyway,” I say as I go into the fridge and pull out the remaining ingredients. “I’ll be doing some shrimp and broccolini to go with it. Because if I just eat pasta, I’ll need four plates of it.”
“And,” I say, holding up my finger again before she can speak, “before you insult it, this is the kind of ‘it’ that tells me whether you can follow direction.”
Her eyes narrow. “Are we cooking or are you interviewing me?”
“Yes,” I say, deadpan.
She smiles. “Very well, Chef. What first?”
I point to the pot. “Fill it. Water. Flames on high.”
She moves, doing what I told her, and the way her hips shift in those lounge pants is a special kind of torture. I keep my gaze on the pot because I’m really starting to doubt my restraint.
“Salt,” I say.
She reaches for the salt shaker.
“No,” I correct immediately. “Sea salt. Handful.”
She freezes, glancing at me like I’ve suggested something illegal. “A handful.”
“A handful,” I repeat. “The water should taste likethe sea.”
Her mouth tilts. “That seems excessive.”
I look at her, and for a second, my brain wants to say something about tasting other things. About how I know exactly what she tastes like, and I could describe it in detail.
I don’t. I keep it clean.
For now.
