I force a smile. “Well, I hope you find the right person.”
“Me too, kid. Me too.”
I wave goodbye to Ken, and the sign catches my eye on the way out. That pull to ask him about it more tugs at me, but I pay no heed to it. I can’t. I have other things I need to focus on right now.
Maybe I’ll get my own restaurant one day, but it won’t be today.
“You’re doing it wrong.”
Ezra glares at me over his shoulder, then goes back to stretching out the dough far too thin.
Much to my chagrin, he wasn’t at the cidery today. Apparently he had to borrow Noah’s truck and go pick up a new pinball machine that they were having trouble getting the company to deliver.
Instead, it was just me and Warner, who was on his absolute best behavior all day.
Ezra texted me around the time I got off with one single word.
Tonight?
I couldn’t deny him, which is why I’m standing in his kitchen, watching him butcher the crescent rolls we’re having with the chicken pesto pasta we’re making.
“You’re pulling them too thin. They’re going to do—that.” I sigh as it rips in half. “Break.”
I want to shove him out of the way and take over because it’s just in my nature, but I refrain. I pick up another chunk of dough and hand it to him.
“Try again,” I instruct. “And stop overworking the dough.”
“Yes, Chef,” he teases, and I swear the words have never been hotter.
Our second cooking lesson is going much better than our first. In hindsight, I probably should have started with something a little easier, like I did tonight.
This time, when he spreads out the dough, it’s perfect, and I coach him on how to fold it so it looks pretty. While it doesn’t, it’s still edible, and that’s all that counts, right?
“Better?”
“I mean, it’s in one piece, so that’s always a plus.” I point to the noodles on the stovetop that should be just about done. “Check on those and drain them while I finish the rolls?”
He nods, then wipes his hands on his apron, and I have to bite my lip to keep from smiling. If he keeps doing that, we might have a repeat of last time when we smoked the kitchen out because we couldn’t keep our hands off each other.
I quickly finish the rolls, then move on to the chicken with Ezra.
We get everything plated, take off our aprons, and then sit down at the table that we set earlier. There’s something about eating across from each other, a bottle of wine sitting between us, that feels so ... well, kind of romantic. Definitely different from eating cereal in his bed, that’s for sure.
“Oh shit. That’s actually good,” Ezra says through a mouthful of food.
I’d tell him he’s being gross, but he’s right—it is good. It’s almost like he knows what he’s doing.
“Any improvements you’d make?” I ask, twirling the pasta onto my fork, then stabbing a piece of chicken.
“The chicken is just a bit overcooked, but that’s my bad. I should have taken it off the burner when you told me to.” He points his utensil at me. “But that’s your fault.”
“How?”
“The apron, Sunny. You know what it does to me.” He winks at me over the top of his wineglass.
“Eat your food, Ezra.”
“Yes, Chef.”
