“You cared?” I ask hoarsely.
Staring down at me, he searches my eyes. “Yes, Kate. I cared. I care. I’ve been shit at showing it, but I have always cared about you.” He swallows roughly. “And admired you.”
My heart skips. “Well . . . if it makes you feel any better, I’ve cared, too.” Oh God, now my heart feels like an elevator plummeting to its doom. Admitting this shit is hard. “And . . . admired you. For a capitalist, at least.”
Christopher’s smile turns so bright, its wattage could power a city block. I turn back toward the counter, smiling, too.
“For a capitalist, huh?” The pleasure in his voice, an edge of almost laughter, makes goose bumps dance across my skin.
I shrug, biting back my smile as it grows.
“Is that a smile I just earned?” Christopher dips his head, nuzzling my shoulder with his chin. It makes a very juvenile noise squeak out of me.
“Christopher.” I nudge him halfheartedly in the stomach with my elbow.
“Katerina,” he says, so close his mouth nearly brushes my neck. A shiver dances down my spine.
“Stop tickling me,” I tell him, forcing my posture to straighten, my voice to steady.
“Fine.” He sighs, tapping the counter. “Now, come on. Everything that’s been upsetting you today, work it out on the pasta dough.”
I hesitate for a moment, then step closer. Slowly, I push up my sleeves higher, before sinking my hands into the eggs. I squeeze as hard as I can, squealing in pleasure at the slimy, runny whites, the satisfying, tactile resistance of the remaining yolks slipping out of my grip.
“Feel good?” he asks.
“Uh, it’s just a sensory delight.” I lift my hands and show him the way I’m savoring the sticky texture of the flour and egg between my fingers. “This is incredible.”
He steps closer behind me and sinks his hands into the flour and eggs again, too.
It feels so good, his body behind mine, his hands and my hands, messy together.
Our hands touch, our bodies brush. I feel his breath, warm and soft on my neck, his eyes on me, watching me as I lose myself in our task, and soon we have a ball of dough. Christopher shows me how to knead it, his hands on mine, folding the dough over itself, pressing it into the counter.
“Still doing okay?” he asks.
“Yes,” I whisper, knowing my voice is uneven but helpless to do a damn thing about it. “Very okay.”
Maybe he hears how affected I am. Maybe he’s affected, too. Because he falters with the dough, fumbling it for a moment before smoothly folding it over. Somehow, he suddenly feels closer, but I know he hasn’t moved. I think maybe I have. I think maybe I’ve leaned back into him like I’d sink into a hot, long-awaited bath.
For just a moment, I shut my eyes, luxuriating in the nearness of his body and its heat, the thrill as he nuzzles my hair and breathes in, slow and deep. When he breathes out, his mouth brushes the shell of my ear. “I’ve never done this before,” he says, so quietly I barely hear him.
“Made pasta?”
He laughs softly, like a sigh. “You’re such a pain in my ass,” he says. “I mean I’ve never done this . . . with someone else.”
I bite my lip, inordinately pleased. I sort of figured Christopher’s done just about everything there is to be done with someone else. “And?”
“And I like it.” I feel his swallow down his throat, his hands covering mine as we shape the dough together.
“I like it, too,” I tell him quietly.
“We can do it again,” he says. “Whenever you want.”
I stare down at our little masterpiece made up of a few humble ingredients, feeling like this night is a masterpiece itself, born out of a few humble ingredients of our own. Kindness, honesty, the work of seeing what we share, not what sets us apart.
A smile, bright and deep from the heart of me, lights up my face. “I’d like that.”
Christopher’s quiet, but I feel it like the wind on a sun-bright autumn day, soft and warm and real . . .
He smiles, too.
* * *
—
One giant plate of cacio e pepe and one very large glass of red wine later, I stand at the door, watching Christopher shrug on his coat and set his work bag over his shoulder.
Nervous energy flutters in my stomach. I pin my cheeks hard between my teeth so I won’t say again the same thing that started this all:
Stay. Please.
Christopher sets a hand on the dead bolt, unlocking it, then the door handle’s lock, too. I feel time slipping like sand between my fingers, the moment almost lost to me.
My hand shoots out and wraps around his wrist, stopping him. “Thank you,” I blurt, feeling that damn flush crawl up my throat to my cheeks.
Christopher lets go of the door, turning his hand until our palms slide together. “Thank you for letting me teach you something with only one threat to my delicate bits.”
I bite back a smile. “You got very condescending about the pasta roller.”
“You were very close to breaking it.”
I roll my eyes. “I was not.”
A smile tips his mouth. “Next time, I’ll show you how to make marinara. You can take out your frustrations with the world on tomatoes.”
Next time.
That tiny sentence hangs in the air. Christopher senses it, and so do I.
I don’t refute that “next time.” Because the truth is I want “next time.” I want to tell Christopher more about where I’ve been and what I’ve seen. I want him to tell me more stories about his coworkers and share more about the nerdy, philosophical beauty of his ethical investment approach. I want to sit beside him at the kitchen island and bump elbows, demolish a big bowl of pasta, and get a little tipsy on wine.
I want more. More touches like the way he touched me when he walked me home that night, the way he held me in the office today. More hugs like every hug tonight. More kisses like the one he pressed to my lips outside my apartment that made my knees weak and lit a fire inside me aching for whatever mysterious alchemy that keeps it burning bright.
But I don’t know how to ask for that. If I should.
If he wants what I do.
As if he senses my internal battle, Christopher tugs me close, until I land with a comforting thump against his chest.
It feels as wonderful as his hug when he first walked in.
And infinitely better.
His hand slips from mine and drifts around my waist, tucking me close. His other hand curls around my jaw, smoothing back my hair.
And then he presses a kiss to my forehead, long and tender.
My arms wrap tighter around Christopher and travel up his back. Air rushes out of him, and his head dips, his mouth grazing my temple, my cheekbone, the corner of my mouth, so close to where I want him.
I want him to kiss me so badly, a tiny desperate sound of need leaves my throat.
One hand tightens at my waist, pulling me harder against him. The other sinks into my hair, kneading it. I press my lips to his jaw and breathe him in.
“Kate.” His voice is tinged with warning.
“Hmm?”
He swallows roughly. I kiss his Adam’s apple, too. “I’m trying to be a gentleman.”
I groan in frustration. “Stop.”
“Please,” he says quietly, his thumb drifting across my lip. “Let me. For once. You’ve had a big glass of wine and a long day.”
“And?”
“And I’m not taking advantage of that.”
I scowl as he starts to pull away. “I am capable of making my own decisions, even when navigating a few emotions and eight ounces of wine.”
“I know that. And next time, if you want the same thing from me, I promise you”—he bends and presses a swift, deep kiss to some dangerously sensitive place on my neck, his voice hot and dark against the shell of my ear—“I will not be able to say yes fast enough.”
My mouth parts as he whips open the door and disappears past it, fast, purposeful strides taking him away from me.
And yet, hours later, lying in bed miles from where I picture him lying in his bed, too, I feel so close to him.
Closer than I ever have.
? TWENTY-TWO ?
Christopher