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Taking out my pasta maker, I make space on the counter. “Want to learn how to make pasta?”
“Sounds hard,” she says with a soft giggle.
“It’s really not.” I shoot her a smirk. “Just follow my lead.”
She eyes the pasta maker as if facing down a foe but nods in determination. “Let’s do this.”
I take flour, salt, and an egg out and tell her to mix the flour and salt in a bowl first. After she’s done, I crowd her against the counter, her back leaning into my chest.
Taking her hands in mine, I show her how to make a well in the middle of the flour and have her crack the egg. I try not to laugh at her extreme concentration, but I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything cuter. I trail my nose up her neck while she finishes.
“You’re distracting me,” she says with a breathy giggle.
I give her a small tut, my hands on her hips. “Concentrate.”
I instruct her to dust the counter with flour, and she shoots me an amused side glance but does as I say. When she’s done, I take her hands in mine again and teach her how to knead the dough with the heel of her palm.
“You’re doing so well,” I whisper in her ear, my hands moving up her arm.
“Ozzy,” she warns, leaning into me.
I snicker, finally pulling away. Letting her continue, I check on the sauce, tasting it, adding more salt, and then tasting it again, all the while observing James.
“I like seeing you in my kitchen,” I say, maybe a little too thoughtfully, charmed by the domesticity of it all. Putting my hand over hers to have her stop kneading, I turn her around to face me. I tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear before kissing her, my thumb smoothing over her cheek as I do.
“Am I the first person you’ve taught how to make pasta?” she says in a near whisper, her eyes hooded and looking deeply sated.
“Romantically? Yes.” My fingers tighten around her nape, and I trail my lips over hers, giving her another slow kiss. “You're the first person for a lot of things, baby.”
“I like that,” she says a little breathlessly, her eyes half closed from the kiss.
In that very instant, I want to tell her to give in to thisfeeling. To stop pretending we’re only friends with benefits when I don’t think we’ve ever beenjustfriends.
But I don’t want to ruin the moment, knowing that the decision needs to come from her. I’m not the one wanting to keep things fun and casual. I’ve been ready for something serious ever since I first saw her.
She’ll want the same eventually, I don’t doubt that.
She just needs a bit more time.
And I can give that to her.
Because I’m not going anywhere.
After a meal of homemade pasta,a shared bottle of wine, and a few shots from an old Jameson bottle I had lying around, we decide to go out for a nightcap. We head to Darling, a new cocktail bar that opened earlier this summer.
It’s after midnight and the place is packed, but we manage to find a high top near the back. Tipsy James is more handsy in public than usual, and I take full advantage. I drag her chair close to mine, and she tugs on my collar so that I need to lean even closer. I revel in our intimacy, my chest swelling in pride at being with her like this. I don’t know if there was ever a better time to describe a kiss as horny, but this is it, my hand slipping over her thigh as I taste her tongue on mine.
“Oh my fucking god.”
It takes a second for me to place the voice but by the time I do, James has already pulled away with a small gasp.
“Michelle! What are you doing here?” she chirps.
Michelle’s eyes narrow as she points her finger fromJames’ face to mine. “Iknewit. I knew something was going on with you two.”
“It’s nothing—well it’s not nothing, I mean, uh …” James babbles.
I’m somehow struck dumb and sit there not able to say a single word as I listen to James fail to successfully finish a single sentence.
