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“Knead.”

I feel more than hear the hitch in her breath. Her back bumps against my chest. I angle my hips away.

Stop it, Gabe. You’re not fulfilling her wish. Yet.

I freeze with my fingers still wrapped around her wrists. I drop my hands.

Have I decided to go through with this? For real?

I glance down at the crown of her head, at the dark curls cascading down her back, feel the warmth of her in front of me.

Yes.

Her hands move confidently until I lean closer. Then they stall.

“You’re distracting me.”

“I thought you could do this with your eyes closed.”

“My eyes aren’t the problem.”

I smile. Give her a little room before I forget about dinner entirely.

Once the dough is smooth, I cover it and leave it to rest while we talk.

Half an hour later, I hand her a rolling pin and step behind her again. Her first pass barely flattens the dough.

I place my hands over hers.

“Harder,” I tell her, pressing down.

Margo’s sharp intake of breath tells me she’s at least as affected as I am.

We roll and cut the dough, working together until we have enough tagliatelle for two.

She looks up at me, grinning, brown eyes sparkling.

“That was fun!”

I smile. Think about kissing her. Think better of it.

I let her go, stepping backward, and she pouts just slightly.

“Better start the sauce.”

She hops onto the counter behind me. I glance over my shoulder at her before turning back to the stove.

I drizzle olive oil into the pan and soften the shallots, then add garlic and tomatoes. Salt, pepper, basil. I give it a stir and leave the sauce to simmer.

I put Fleetwood Mac’s “Dreams” on quietly through my phone. Margo starts humming along, and I catch myself smiling at the stove.

“I’d usually let it simmer longer, but fifteen minutes should do for tonight.”

“It smells amazing,” she says, swinging her legs.

I turn to face her, smiling as I brace my hands behind me on the counter opposite hers.

“Thank you.”