“Are you ordering?”
“No. I’m cooking.”
“Oh, so, like, frozen ravioli? Or canned?”
“We’re going to pretend you didn’t just suggest I would serve youcannedravioli.”
“I practically existed on that stuff as a kid,” I admitted. And I was always thankful to the people who donated those cans to the food pantry instead of things that would need other ingredients to make a full meal. Even if I’d known how to cook, our stove never worked. And, sure, the microwave was always on the fritz too, but you could learn to tolerate cold canned ravioli. And it filled up your belly.
“Well, I can do better than canned. Or frozen.”
“You’re going to actually… make it? Do they sell empty ravioli shells?”
“Probably. But, no. I’m going to make the dough too.”
“That might be the sexiest thing I’ve ever heard.”
“Oh, yeah?” he asked, shooting me a smirk. “And what if I add that I am going to make homemade garlic bread? From scratch?”
“Now you’re just dirty-talking me.” He was still laughing when I climbed over him to get off the bed. “Come on. You have work to do.”
And he was happy to get right to it.
While I sat there mesmerized, watching his scarred hands effortlessly mix and roll dough, chop vegetables (because I “had” to have something healthy with my meal now), and make sauce. Like from actual fresh tomatoes. There was a fractionating amount of crushing, seasoning, mixing, and seasoning some more going into it.
Did I occasionally get distracted by the way the muscles in his arms flexed? Sure. And did my panties almost ignite when he lifted a sauce-dipped finger in his mouth to taste the product? Absolutely.
But no matter how much my libido was begging to make him take a break, the other part of me was way too excited about a home-cooked meal to interrupt.
“I feel like I should offer to help. But I have no idea what to do.”
“We could do some cooking lessons over the next few months, if you want,” he offered. “But for right now, I like just having your company.”
“You mentioned your dad cooking. Does your mom enjoy it too?”
“She cooks. But everyone just prefers Dad’s cooking more. Ma makes a mean sugar cookie, though.”
“And now that you’ve dropped that little bomb, I’m going to need some sugar cookies too. I’ve never had one.”
“Asugar cookie?” he asked, whipping around, a spatula still in hand.
“A homemade cookie, period.”
“Oh, baby,” he said, giving me a sad look as he shook his head. “I’m going to blow your mind then.”
“I can’t wait.”
We talked for a while about food, mostly about how his little family unit really revolved around it, about how his dad used to be the cook for the whole clubhouse when he’d been a more active member.
The conversation eventually shifted to all the different aunts, uncles, and cousins and their love stories.
“Are you disappointed?” I asked when he was finally done recounting them all.
“Disappointed in what?”
“Oh, I don’t know. That I didn’t show up after months of stalking you to try to fulfill a lifelong mission to kill you for what you did to me and my family when you were a spy? Or with a bomb strapped to my chest? Or dramatically running down the street in the middle of a hurricane…”
“Eh, I think our story seems to have some craziness too. Even if I wasn’t a part of the action-packed part of it.”
