she takes the ball of dough out of the refrigerator and sets it near the flour and pasta machine I laid out the night before. She seems to know exactly what she’s doing, so I take the grocery list she made, turn on my heel, and head for the door.
It’s a smaller shopping trip than normal since the only items I really need to grab are some ingredients for the broccoli salad, fresh chicken for the pasta, flank steak to go with the fresh chimichurri sauce, and fresh bread. I’m not going to have time to prepare fresh loaves today, not for 120 guests.
I pay for my groceries and carry them back to the kitchen within thirty minutes of when I walked out. Maggie hasn’t left her pasta duties at all from what I can tell. She’s completely in the zone, her light brown eyes wide beneath bent, concentrated brows as she focuses on the mission at hand. A mission, might I add, that she’s kicking ass at. I set the groceries on the island, unable to take my eyes off the dozens and dozens of long and thick fettuccini, made just the way I taught her in a previous class.
There’s a special technique that goes into making scratch pasta. Even with a machine, it’s not as simple as it looks. Maggie just made it look like she’s been making pasta for years. There’s even a hint of a smile on her face as she rolls out the next batch of noodles, catching it easily on a sheet of Saran Wrap.
When she’s done, she lets out a heavy sigh and looks up, her chest still inflated as her eyes register something resembling hope. She wants my approval. “Well?” she asks with a shrug as I glance down at her handiwork. “I did it.”
I walk around the island to inspect the noodles with an exaggerated effort. I don’t need to look any closer to know she made my job look like a walk in the park. I arrive behind her and reach my hand out like I’m going to touch one, but I don’t. “All right, should we move on to the chimichurri sauce? I could use help gathering the ingredie—”
She whips around so fast, I swear her hair might fly out of her twisty bun. Her gorgeous eyes narrow on mine, and she steps forward as if she has an inch to spare. She doesn’t, causing her to push up against me, her chest heaving with frustration. I don’t look, although I want to badly, but it doesn’t stop me from picturing my tongue on her tits in the back of my car last week.
“That’s all you have to say to me? I did a great job.”
I can feel the corner of my mouth tugging up against my will. “I didn’t say otherwise.”
“You didn’t acknowledge how great I did either.”
Without taking my eyes off of her, I lean down until my nose is almost touching hers. Then I lick my lips and hear the hitch in her next breath. I like it too much. I like Maggie too much, which is exactly why I need to put forth every effort possible to show her the man she loves to hate. He’s the safe version of me, the version I don’t have to worry about fucking up every five seconds of the day.
I draw in a slow, steady breath and open my mouth to respond with exaggerated slowness. “I don’t give awards for pasta cutting.”
With a growl, she places her palms against my chest and starts to push.
I chuckle and grab her hand as she starts to leave, then I swing her back toward me. “Wait a second. Since when do you need affirmations to know your worth? Just doesn’t seem like the Maggie way.”
She yanks her hand from mine and folds her arms across her chest. “I don’t need affirmations. But I sure as hell deserve one after that.”
I sigh, unable to piss her off anymore. As much as I love messing with her, she doesn’t seem to be in her normally playful mood. “You did great, Maggie, but it hurts to admit it, okay? You nailed it. They’re perfect. If you never go back to modeling, you should consider a career as a pasta cook. You happy?”
Although my tone was dryer than dry, Maggie’s smile is as bright as the hundred-watt bulb I screwed into the ceiling yesterday.
“Yes, I am, thank you very much.” She slips past me and