Page 77 of Dark OZ

“You could say please,” I joked.

He paused, mid scoop of flour and glowered at me. “And you could go back to eating celery.”

I rolled my eyes. “Joking, oh Angel of Death, sir.” The corner of his glare cracked, just a little. A wave of triumph rolled through me. “Here’s your eggs,” I added with a bowing flourish.

Within minutes Nick had turned the mixture into a thick dough. He pulled the bowl from the mixer, laid a cloth over the top, and sat the whole thing in the fridge. The mountain of tattoos and muscles returned to the counter with a container of cherry tomatoes and some herbs.

“Ummm,” I said, having no idea of something better to say. “What was the point of all that if we were just going to put it in the fridge?”

He smacked his flour covered hands in the air, making a small dust cloud spiral around him. “The dough needs to sit. I told you, some things require patience.” Nick pulled a frying pan from an overhead rack, where it was dangling. “I’d like to make a cream sauce. Something tells me you’d love that. But, I don’t know that your stomach could handle it right now. It’s probably wiser to make something light.”

Nick smacked a clove of garlic with the flat side of a large knife, making me jump, then quickly diced it. “This is olive oil.” He twisted open the green bottle. “It’s from the same town I was born in.” Golden liquid poured into the base of the pan. “Come here.”

I shifted closer to him, feeling the heat from the gas stovetop against my face. He dipped his pinky into the already warm oil, then lightly smeared it over my lips. My heart fluttered in my chest. It was so tender that it was hard to believe that this was Nick standing beside me. He tossed the garlic into the pan, along with some dried peppers. A hiss filled the room along with the sweet aroma of the cloves. “The oil is great for chapped… or abused lips.” His eyes flicked towards the still quiet bedroom.

I ran my finger over my shining lips, then sucked the residue oil from the tip. His eyes tracked my movement, and his breathing hitched slightly. It was barely noticeable, except we were standing so close that I felt the small motion of his stomach against my chest.

Savoring the flavor of the buttery oil, I remarked, “I’ll have to remember that.”

The next few minutes stretched into awkward silence while Nick sliced the world’s tiniest tomatoes in half, then crushed them. By the time he was chopping the herbs into little specks of green confetti, I couldn’t stand the quiet any longer.

“So where was that? Where you were born, I mean. I’ve never met anyone with an accent like yours before.”

He didn’t look at me. “My accent isn’t really that thick. Not like my father’s, and my Nonna doesn’t even speak English.”

“It is when you’re upset about something.” I walked my fingers along his arm like a tiny bug. Slowly, his eyes slid to the side. My entire expression crinkled with mischievous joy. I was definitely getting to him.

“Combina guai.I swear, you are pure, undiluted trouble.” Nick playfully swatted at my hand, but when his fingers landed over mine there was no sting. Instead there was a light squeeze, flattening my palm around his forearm. It made something unexpected flutter in my chest.

“You wouldn’t know the town. It’s in Italy, far outside of Ozmandria’s borders. My father thought if we crossed an ocean, then he could set up his very own little Morphea empire. He wasn’t wrong, but sometimes I wish we hadn’t left home.”

“How old were you when you moved?”

“Ten.” He bent down and pulled out a silver machine with a huge crank on the side.

“I suppose you ordered a whole case of those, too?”

“In fact, I bought them from the same place as the moka pots. I got a bulk discount.” He winked at me. Or was it his eye twitching? I chose to believe that it was a wink.

The more time I spent with Nick, the harder he was to understand. Ninety-nine percent of the time he was a brick wall, emotionless and immovable. But, that other one percent he was playful. If I tried hard enough, could I push him as far as goofy? At that moment, I decided that was my next goal. I would make Niccolo Chopper act like a goof, if it was the last thing I did.

Nick sprinkled some flour onto the counter top. “Coat your hands with flour, so the dough doesn’t stick to them.”

He separated the lump into smaller sections, handing me one. “Flatten the dough into discs. Watch me.”

Oh, I was watching, forgetting entirely about the dough and focusing solely on the way the muscles in his forearms and hands flexed. God, the strength behind such simple movements was making my entire body feel hot. The fact that the ball was exactly the same shape as a breast wasn’t helping either.

“Thea.” The tattooed lines of his fingers pushed into the dough, the surface swallowing his fingertips up to the second knuckle until he drew them slowly back.

“Yeah?” I remarked dreamily.

“It’s your turn, fiore mio.”

“My turn,” I squeaked, jumping up and nervously palming my throat. Did the air just get thinner? I swear the steel in his eyes cut straight through me.

Nick turned, his massive frame eating up the space between us.

“The dough.” He reached over and loosened my grip on the dough ball. Subconsciously, I’d tightened my hand so completely that bits were oozing between my fingers. Ghosting his arm over mine, Nick pushed the ball flat with the heel of my hand. Folding the dough, he repeated the action three times, until the mangled lump turned back into something smooth.

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