Page 78 of Dark OZ

“Now flatten it out, just like I did.”

“Mmm hmm.” I cleared my throat, ignoring the way my pussy seemed to have developed its own pulse. “I can do that.”

I did my best to make my dough ball into an even and flat disc. Or as best as I could while flicking my eyes up to his every twenty seconds. Each time that little crook to the corner of his mouth crept higher.

Nick fed his disc into the top of the machine. It came out the other side in a flat sheet. He did it again and again, the sheet getting longer and thinner until he was satisfied. “Now we cut the pasta.”

Threading the sheet through the other side of the machine, the dough split into a dozen, long strips. Nick dropped them unceremoniously into a pile before reaching for a new disc.

I plucked a noodle from the pile and laid it over my upper lip. With an exaggerated lift of my eyebrow, I did my best impression of an old timey gentleman, while stroking my ridiculously long mustache.

The restrained corners of Nick’s mouth finally broke. It wasn’t quite a smile, but it was enough to make me start laughing in triumph.

“Do you want to try…sir.” He took a handful of flour and threw it at me.

I spluttered, my noodle-stache falling from my lip. “Cutting the noodles?” It came out as half a laugh and half a shriek from the face of flour I’d just taken.

“Pasta, yes.”

“You’re going to trust me with your fancypastamachine?”

“You don’t have to be afraid of it.”

I plucked up a pinch of flour, and flicked it at him. “I’m not afraid of anything.”

He swiped a cloth over his face, without seeming the least bit annoyed. “I think we both know that isn’t true.”

For a second the happiness faded from the moment, and a flood of nightmarish memories reeled through my mind.

Nick’s deep voice cut through the haze, “Just hold it at the mouth of the machine, and turn the crank. The machine does all the work.”

The sheet slowly fed out the bottom, and gently he guided it onto the counter. In tandem we picked up the sheet, my fingers brushing against his. Nick helped me to feed it back through the machine a second time without letting the dough fold in the process.

“Was it your father who taught you how to do all of this?”

Nick barked a laugh. “Absolutely not. My father never did anything that he could pay or scare someone else into doing for him.”

I nodded. “Em was exactly the same. She never went in the kitchen, except to yell at the cook for not meeting every one of her unnecessary dietary requirements.”

“It was my Nonna Lucia that taught me to cook. She’d beat me raw if she knew I used a dough hook.” I glanced back at the mixer, and the weird attachment he’d used to stir the dough. I giggled at the vision of a little old granny chasing a big, brutish Nick around the kitchen with a wooden spoon.

“I loved cooking with her. There was a time when that’s what I wanted to do with my life.”

I paused feeding the dough into the machine to look up at him. His expression was distant, and lost in a pleasant memory. Like a bubble popping, he blinked and returned his attention to me.

“My father had other plans, and I always knew that it wasn’t an option anyway. That’s kind of the point of dreams. They’re the things you wish for, because they aren’t truly possible.”

I frowned. “That’s both sad and wrong. I dreamed of being free from Em and The Farm, and here I am learning to make noodles—”

“Pasta.”

“—pastawith you. A dream come true.” I dropped a handful of pasta on the pile. They weren’t as pretty as his, but each lumpy strand was mine. I’d never made anything of value before. I beamed at him with noodly pride. Nick didn’t have praise for me, but the full smile he gave me in return was better than any compliment. He handed me another disc, and together we pushed the last set through the machine.

After dropping the fettuccine into a waiting pot of boiling water, Nick added the tomatoes to the pan of oil. They sizzled. The aroma of the tomatoes mixing with the still lingering garlic made my mouth water and my stomach rumbled loudly.

Nick looked up from the frying pan, meeting my eyes. Normally they were so cold and metallic, but right now they felt like anything but. He reached up, and brushed at the flour still on my cheek. Then, he looked at his hand, inspecting his fingertips as though they had moved on their own and he could find their malfunction just by looking at them.

“Why don’t you go wash off the flour and I’ll plate this up for us.”

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