Page 79 of Finding A Way Back Home

“Robert Milo Allen has a nice ring to it.”

And just like that, every scrap of composure exited my body. Hell, maybe my soul went with it, some kind of existential elation rolling through me. “Yeah,” I breathed. “It really does.”

His eyes narrowed on my face, like he could see the way my heart and mind were racing. Racing with what ifs and how’s? “Hey, we figure all this out one day at a time, baby. You don’t have to plan our whole life out right now.”

Nodding, I asked, “You can see us building a life together?”

“Baby girl, there’s not a woman alive I’ve ever seen that playing out with… except for you. You make it easy to see that complete picture. The late-night feedings. The diapers and potty training and picking the right schools. With anybody else, college tours would stress me out. But if I was doing it with you…” That smile that owned every inch of my heart grew. “That’s the dream, right there.”

TWENTY-FIVE

ELORA

The rich scent of garlic and veggie sauce loaded with meat mixed in the air with the soft sounds of Louis Armstrong singing “La Vie En Rose” like a magical transportation device that erased the Chicago skyline in favor of my memories of Europe. Our instructor, a boisterous middle aged white man with a generous belly and not quite enough neck, walked around grinning–first at the stations and then at his eager students. He insisted we call him Gio, although a handful of us playfully insisted on calling him ‘Chef.’ A subtle bubbling sound drew Broderick’s attention, and he leaned over to stir the sauce, inhaling deeply.

“God, I’m salivating,” he breathed happily.

“It’s not my fault this time.”

“For once,” he muttered, bringing the wood spoon, which was loaded with Bolognese sauce, up to his nose. I snickered, using the back of my wrist to wipe stray strands of hair away from my eyes. He hadn’t been spectacularly confident, but there had been something disproportionately sexy about watching him chop all the veggies during prep. Broderick had this way of looking suave, even while he compulsively re-checked our instructions, nervously watching Gio in his rotation around the room, like we’d retroactively fail school if he missed a step. It was disconcertingly endearing.

“Is perfect!” Gio exclaimed excitedly across the room as he peered over the shoulder of a rather anxious looking pair of Korean women that had to be sisters judging by their matching looks and laughter. His accent was as thick as the scent of simmering veggies and herbs.

“How’s it coming, Pix?” Broderick questioned as he slid back to my side, pinching more semolina and dusting the wood board generously as I portioned out a fresh ball of dough. A stray plume drifted toward my apron, and I giggled as he muttered a curse under his breath.

“Easy, Professor, you’re getting flour everywhere.”

“Beg your pardon–I am clearly masterful at flour distribution.” Even as he said it, he lost a battle with a laugh. Honestly, I was more than a little surprised when he announced our plan for the evening. Broderick generally stuck to activities he had practiced in, not a big fan of trying something new and failing in front of an audience. Which meant this stretch outside of his comfort zone was solely for me.

“My Renaissance man,” I said, feigning a swoon as I leaned back into his chest. He moved around my body, one dusted hand landing on my waist on top of the red apron, lips finding my neck on the opposite side.

“My muse,” he whispered huskily, his voice coasting over my skin as sweetly as his possessive hold on my hip. He swiped up the remaining dough, and wrapped it in the plastic film, like Gio had shown us. Evidently, keeping the dough from drying out was more than a little crucial. Leave it to me to shoot straight for the fun part and Broderick to look after the details.

“Thanks,” I muttered, feeling a little silly for forgetting.

“Of course. Nice work on the Tagliatelle.” He wrapped me back up, resting his chin on my shoulder as I worked the dough with the rolling pin. We stayed like that for a beat, Broderick guiding me through a subtle little sway with a hand on my belly and his hips against my ass as Etta James’ A Sunday Kind of Love took over on the understated speakers. A happy little hummingbird fluttered in my chest where my pesky heart had long since liquified. Wordlessly, he brought a hand around to hold the edge of our rolled dough when it came time to wrap the sheet around the rolling pin. Together, we mimicked the soft little rock with the pin that Gio had shown the class, and I tried not to break skin as I chewed on my lip nervously. It’s not that I was a poor cook, but something as intricate as authentic Italian pasta was well outside my wheelhouse as well.

“Okay, so now we flip it, right?” I leaned toward him, smiling as the heat of his breath ghosted over my lips.

“Right,” he affirmed. I gingerly unrolled the dough, smiling when Broderick lifted his hands out of my way and dusted the board with flour again when I peeled our sheet from the wood surface. I laid it back down, bringing the rolling pin back to continue the motions we’d learned. Before I knew it, Gio was peering over my opposite shoulder, his cheeks rosy enough they belonged on The Night Before Christmas illustration of St. Nick.

“Get your hands on it,” he encouraged in that thick Italian lilt. “Not too thin, not too thick. You gotta feel it.”

Broderick subtly nipped at my earlobe, and when Gio spun toward our neighbor he muttered, “Dying to feel something,” but obediently brought his hands down to test the dough with me, ensuring all the edges were even.

“It doesn’t have to be a perfect circle. Is alright if some are small and some are bigger,” Gio encouraged as he walked down the aisle between stations in his white apron and light blue button-up shirt with his hands braced behind his back.

“That’s not what she said,” I mused, and Broderick choked on a laugh, resting his forehead on my shoulder to keep from losing it. “Glad you enjoy my ridiculous humor.”

“Some things never change.”

“Thank God for that.” Despite the shake of laughter through his chest, we completed the pasta rolling process together in a wordless dance of movement, interspersed with my nervous giggles. Simultaneously canting our heads, we both stared down at the big blonde blob, and I wondered if he was also wondering if we could do anything else or if we’d completed the step.

From the corner of his mouth, Broderick hissed, “I think we did it?”

Laughing, I agreed. “I think we did.”

It was right about then that Gio boomed over the chatter and vocals to remind us of that ultimate test. “Molto bene! You should be about done and remember to hold it up.” He peeled his own example off the front station and held it to the light, opposite hand wiggling behind it and casting shadows through the sheet of dough. “See my hand through it?”

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