Page 19

Chapter 19

Zack

Did I think a cheese paste would be part of my plans tonight? No, I didn’t. But when Emilie called, I couldn’t say yes fast enough, especially because I was supposed to get dinner with my dad but he had to reschedule.

“A cheese paste? What the hell is that?” I whisper as I ask Emilie what Chef is talking about. Apparently, cacio e pepe is a real dick to make, and many people end up with a clumpy, cheesy mess.

She laughs and playfully shoves me in the ribs. “Listen, he’s going to tell us.”

Emilie is definitely a rule follower. There were a few times I tried jumping ahead like half a step, and she’d gently put her hand on mine and shake her head no.

“Oh, you’re one of those good girls.” Before the words exit my mouth, I’m holding back a laugh.

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” She doesn’t take her eyes from Chef as he’s showing us how to make cheese paste, which I hope tastes better than it sounds.

Fuck. Yes. I would like to know.

“Isn’t it fun to be bad every once in a while?”

“Again, wouldn’t you like to know?” This time she turns to me, her eyes daring me to keep going.

“Maybe I would, EJ.” I use her nickname, the one I know she likes, and I find that we’re too close for a public cooking class .

I feel her breath on the side of my face as I lean over her shoulder. My dick has forgotten we’re in public, and I quickly think of anything else to get myself under control: ice baths, TRX bands, wall sits with weights on my legs.

I pay attention to Beau because, even though he’s a handsome man and probably feeds his lovers like royalty, he’s not Emilie. Good thing I did—turns out, cheese paste is hard. Basically, cacio e pepe doesn’t use butter or milk to create the creamy sauce. It’s just pasta water, pecorino cheese, and pepper.

I'm using our glass bowl, trying to get the paste on the outside so we can toss the pasta, while Emilie is finishing the pasta. Chef made us all fresh pasta before the class—what a guy.

“My fingers are starting to cramp,” I whine while I hold a chilled metal spoon, using the round edge to help with the paste consistency.

“Oooh. Bad sign,” Emilie gloats as she delicately stirs the pasta.

I bite my lip and won’t give her the satisfaction of a laugh—even though that was a good one.

“Don’t mangle the cheese with those hands,” she says as I'm putting pressure on the inside of the bowl.

“I bet you think about these hands,” I tease, as I'm so laser focused on not a piece of this bowl showing through this cheese paste situation.

“What if I do?” Emilie quips, and my body freezes. I slowly turn and catch her looking at me. Her curls are wild today, just how I love ‘em. She shrugs her shoulders before draining the rest of her wine, her hazel eyes looking at me through the glass.

Fuck, does she think about my hands? About me? Touching her?

I grab the bottle of wine and pour more in her glass. I close the space between us, but she doesn’t look up from the pasta she’s stirring. With a finger under her chin, I tip her face up until she has no choice but to look at me .

“What if I thought about my hands in these curls, pulling them?” I wrap a crimson curl around a finger for emphasis.

Emilie’s eyes are on me, and it’s just the two of us. The rest of the room fades in the background, like I'm living a fucking rom-com, and I don’t question it.

“Quit looking at me like that.” Her voice is quiet through her devilish grin.

“Like what?”

“Like I’m on the menu,” she enunciates as I continue to twist her hair around my fingers. We keep leaning in, getting closer and closer.

Fuck.

“Your cheese paste is damn near perfect! Très bien. It’s good.” We immediately step back from one another, as Beau has our bowl in his hands, inspecting. “Do you want to tell everyone your secret?” he asks.

“Well, you see, got those championship hands.” I wiggle my fingers, and the group laughs.

The moment is over, but it feels like this whole thing is just getting started.

“This is the best part of cooking class.” I spin a bite of pasta on the spoon, like Chef showed me, and take a bite. The sauce is smooth and peppery—not too rich—and might be one of my new favorite dishes. It’s probably a saving grace that cheese paste is kind of a bitch to make because I could easily eat this a few times a week.

Outside of the cooking space, there’s a small patio with room for seven tables—one for each couple. Twinkly lights are strung from the roof of the building to the one next door, creating the perfect vibe .

I get it. This seems like such a fun thing to be able to do.

“Where do we sign up for the next session?” I ask between bites. “You know I'm here as long as I don’t have anything for Cosmos.”

“You want to sign up for cooking classes with me?” Emilie makes her voice small, a mound of pasta on her spoon, waiting to be devoured.

I'm chewing some of the best pasta I've ever eaten. Fuck, this is so good. The cheese paste was difficult but worth it.

“Why wouldn’t I? This was so fun. Didn't you have a good time?” I ask her, now questioning if it’s just me who would do this again.

Typically, I’m pretty sure of other people. Sometimes, Emilie makes me scratch my head. Is she too good at playing into the fake relationship? Is she not having as much fun as I am? Does she think about me the way I think about her when we’re not together?

“I’d love to do a cooking class with you. The next time they announce one, it’s you and me, okay?”

You and me. Me and Emilie. I like the sound of that.

“Need those championship hands, I guess. This is so good.” She slurps the end of a noodle from her spoon.

“They’re yours,” I say, dipping a piece of fresh bread in oil courtesy of Chef.

I swear she blushes, or maybe I’m making it up.

“Thank you for inviting me. I like learning new things,” I say, trying to express my gratitude for the last minute invite.

I have a lot of opportunities, but as of late, they’re mostly based on my looks or something to do with football. I like to learn new things and tonight was perfect. Somehow, Emilie made it even better.

“Me too,” she replies, grabbing my hand and giving me a classic Emilie smile. God, she’s so fucking beautiful. I don’t know how someone hasn’t married her yet.

Woah. Maybe I need to cool it on the wine.

“I have a question,” Emilie starts, her eyes struggling to meet mine but her cheek pinched in a smirk. “How did you think of the first date story? When we were with my family.”

I take a deep breath, weighing my options. Tell her the truth or make something up. “Promise not to laugh?” I ask.

She nods.

Doing my best to hide the nervousness in the truth, I say, “It was the first date I would’ve asked you on. The thing I thought you’d say yes to. I knew you’d never turn me down if it meant you got croissants at the end.” I shrug my shoulders and rub my hands together.

I change the topic immediately. “Let me get your photo. This whole thing,” I gesture around the aesthetic space, “is perfect for social media.”

Emilie smiles at me over a massive bite of noodles, and with the warm light and the candles on the table, she looks like a fucking goddess. I take a few photos of her, all of them good.

“Let’s take a selfie,” I suggest. Before I can get up to move to her, she’s already sliding in, sitting on my lap.

Good god. Emilie is sitting on my lap. I pray to the gods of erections that my dick plays nice. I don’t need to make this weird.

“Is this okay?” she asks.

“Fuck yeah. You can sit on my lap anytime.” Man, do I mean it. I want to wrap her up and keep her here.

I put my arm out, and we take a few photos. She kisses me on the cheek for a few seconds, and my heart feels like it could leap out of my chest.

No surprises here. That’s what Emilie does to me.

Which is unfortunate, considering this thing has an end date.

But what if it didn’t have to?

While I’m daydreaming, she almost falls off my lap, and I use my hand to catch her, grabbing her hip, which is actually her ass. Good god, these curves should be against the rules .

“Woah. You good? Are you cheese drunk?” I ask, trying to distract myself from the fact that my hand is on her ass, and she didn’t immediately stand up or slap my hand away.

She turns to me, giggling, cheeks turning red—could be from the chilly air, the wine, or maybe she’s embarrassed.

I don’t break eye contact as her laugh dies out—I swear, her eyes have me under some sort of spell. The air between us is sparks and electricity. When I think she’s going to stand up, get off my lap, she puts a piece of my hair between her fingers.

“You’re always playing with my curls. Figured it’s my turn.” She plays with a few strands, before putting her whole hand through my hair.

I’m frozen. I’m afraid to move my hand, jostle her, or ruin the moment.

Fuck. Why does that feel so good?

I hold back a moan because, while that’s my first reaction to her hand running through my hair, I know that is one hundred percent not something I should be doing in public.

“Now you’ll be thinking about my hands,” she says, her mouth too close to mine. We keep doing this, ending up in this position, but neither of us are giving in.

Someone drops silverware at another table and the clanging sound has Emilie up and back in her seat like she was never in my lap.

“Let’s make sure we have a good one.” She grabs my phone to look at the selfies we took. Emilie swipes for a few seconds and then pauses, before giving the phone back to me.

“Good?” I ask.

“Good,” she replies, her voice almost flat.

I don’t know what it is, but something’s changed. The air feels stale compared to the crackle I felt a minute ago.

I will Emilie to look at me, but she doesn’t. No matter how badly I want her to.