Page 42 of Miss Understanding

She broke my train of thought. “Time for you to knead the dough.”

I found myself fascinated by how much effort went into making something I’d only ever bought from a box. That way, it could have been boiled by now. But I was also completely enthralled by how her eyes lit up with the task. It was clear this was her passion.

“Really get in there. Don’t be afraid to get your hands dirty.”

My cock felt her statement. Little did I imagine cooking with Kendall would be seductive, but here I was trying to think of things to calm down the start of an erection.

“What’s next?” I asked, my voice huskier than intended.

“Ah, this is where we improvise a bit since I couldn’t find a rolling pin, and we don’t have a pasta maker.”

She uncorked her bottle of red wine and chugged down the remainder. Christ. The action was so unexpected, I started to laugh. She grinned in return. “Classy, I know. Okay. Let me wash the bottle quickly.”

“For what reason?”

“To roll the dough. First, let’s cut the first blob into eight pieces.” She handed me a knife while I did as she instructed.

“Okay. We have to keep the pasta we’re not working with moist.” She took a dampened towel and laid it over the pile of seven. “Now we roll as thin as we can.”

It was very clear I sucked at it, but she was patient, showing me how to get the dough to the right consistency. I’d be lying if I said having the excuse of being this close to her wasn’t both heaven and hell. She smelled the way I imagined sunshine in a bottle would. Her long, brown hair was tied up in a messy bun. Her beautiful face was devoid of makeup except for her gloss. I could practically taste the strawberries from it.

“Good. Now we slice it. It’ll puff up a bit, so we want thin strips.” She showed me, then let me have a try. This took a long time, yet the motions were weirdly soothing.

“What’s next?” I asked after cutting all of it.

“Seven more times with the remaining blobs.”

I must’ve made a face.

“It’s okay. I’ll do it. Can you get the large pot out of the drawer over there?” She pointed. “And fill it with water for me. Also, I need the large saucepan.”

That I could do. I noticed how quickly she went about rolling out the remaining dough and deftly slicing up the noodles. It was weirdly arousing.

I finished the tasks she’d requested. “What’s next? You want me to boil the water?”

“Not yet. It’ll only take a couple minutes to boil fresh pasta, so we’ll wait until the sauce, chicken, and bread are done.”

It sounded like quite the production. One I wasn’t sure I had time for.

She flashed me an understanding smile. “You’ve more than humored me. I’ll finish if you want to get some more work done.”

“You sure?” I didn’t want to hurt her feelings, but I did have a couple more hours’ worth of review to do.

“Yes. Of course.”

I went back to my laptop but moved it to the kitchen table to be closer to her. I didn’t know why. But it seemed natural to do so. However, I soon found myself distracted. Watching her again. “What are you doing with the chicken?”

“Slicing it into strips. Then I’ll use salt and pepper and brown it in a pan with a bit of olive oil. To be honest, I don’t do a lot to the chicken. I sort of let the sauce and the noodles be the stars.”

I could hear the sizzle and smell the meat. While it cooked, she poured something into the pan. “What is the sauce made from?” Forget it. Working wasn’t happening. Instead, I was absolutely fascinated with the woman in front of me and what she was doing.

“Cream and butter. You melt them together, then add in the Parmesan. Salt and pepper. I also like a dash of nutmeg.”

“Alfredo sauce is only made from those ingredients?”

She smiled. “Yep. Sure is.”

“Tell me what you do with the bread.”