Page 109 of After All This Time

“You did that shit on purpose.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She covers her mouth with one of her hands, hiding the fact that she’s laughing at me.

“Alright, smart ass. Can you give me something I can actually do? I want to help.”

“Fine. Go grab a pot and fill it up with water. Just before the silver circle that’s on the inside of it.”

After several minutes pass by, the pot is full of boiling water. Once the bubbles rise to the top of the pot, I hit it with a healthy dose of salt. I dump the tortellini in slow motion, so I don’t splash us with boiling hot water.

She’s watching me while she’s making the sauce. “I don’t remember seeing you cook before,” she tells me, eyes widening and mouth slightly gaping open.

My eyes narrow. “Why would you?”

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to say it like that. I just meant we’ve never spent this much time together. We couldn’t even be in the same room when we were younger.”

“Yeah, I know you didn’t mean to say it that way. And I guess that’s because we’ve grown up and realized there are more important things in life than trying to murder each other with words.”

Her lips sway to the side of her mouth, her focus shifting back on finishing the sauce. “Right.”

“Dani,” I say as I stir the pasta clockwise with a giant black, plastic ladle.

“What?”

“That smells so fucking good.”

“It does?” Her tone goes up an octave.

“You can’t smell that?”

“Yeah, I can smell it.”

“It smells like Nonna’s Italian restaurant in here.”

Nonna’s is a local restaurant in Sunset Cove. It’s one of the only Italian restaurants in this town.

Fuck, my mouth is watering. I don’t know if it’s from the food or the gorgeous woman standing in front of me.

She shakes her head. “You’re just being nice.”

“I’m serious.”

She’s stirring the pesto cream sauce in the pan with a wooden spoon. “Do you want to taste the sauce? Or do you want to be surprised?”

I want to taste you instead. Your lips. Neck. Clavicle. Chest. Cleavage. Breasts. Let my mouth find a home in between your thighs. Fucking God, Noah. Pull yourself together, man.

“Surprise me. Um…how long do you want to cook the pasta for?”

“The package says two to three minutes, so let’s start with two.”

“Got it. How do I know if they’re ready? I’ve never cooked tortellini before.”

She looks into my eyes. “They float to the top when they’re done.”

Cooking with Dani is something I can picture doing more often. We have this rhythm in the kitchen, anticipating what the other is going to say before the thought escapes their mouth.

My mom did most of the cooking when I was younger.

I didn’t inherit the Kaplan family cooking gene. My sister did. Lizzie helped Mom in the kitchen until she left for college. She couldn’t even reach the countertop without a stool when she was a kid.

---