Page 35 of Feel the Heat

“Oh?” She tried to smile but it was as if the effort might do her some injury. “Show me how a real Italian makes pasta.”

She lasered him with an acute look that said she wasn’t buying what he was shoveling. Any chef worth his salt knew how to make pasta, and she knew that, but her lovely shoulders sank in resignation.

“I’m nowhere near as good as my father, but my Italian genes can probably conjure up some noodle magic.”

Within minutes she had assembled the ingredients—flour, water, salt, an egg—and spellbound, he watched her elegant hands as she expertly worked the dough in a startlingly erotic clench and unclench. The rolling and kneading action also did other things. Wonderful things. It made her body undulate in a sexy wave that plumped her breasts and rocked her hips. He gawked, fantasizing about how her fingers might clench a particular part of his anatomy. The one that was stiffening with every passing second.

Keep it together, idiot.

She took his hand and pressed it down on the dough. He almost had a heart attack.

“This is the consistency you’re looking for.” Her palm covered his knuckles and her slender fingers intertwined with his. “Sort of smooth and elastic. Better to knead too much than too little.”

“Uh huh.” He had his doubts about the effectiveness of this two-handed strategy, but now wasn’t the time to bring it up. Throwing a sneaky glance sideways, he found her staring at their joined hands, her lips parted, a watercolor pink bloom on her cheeks that was in no way attributable to the heat of the kitchen. So, not that pissed after all.

Her long fingers worked, but the dough was no longer getting the treatment. Their flour-covered hands hovered an inch above the countertop, fingers lacing, unlocking, exploring. Critics on three continents had described his food as sexy and sensual, and in his younger days he had banged more women against refrigerators than he’d had hot dinners, but this was, without a doubt, the most arousing experience he’d ever had in a kitchen.

I love your hands, and as she jerked away, he realized he’d spoken aloud. She wiped her brow, leaving a streak of flour that he longed to attend to.

“That was all you,” he said, annoyed that he couldn’t go ten minutes without running his mouth off about his attraction to her.

A smile threatened, but the blush suffusing her cheeks overcame it and spread across the exposed skin of her neck and no doubt, to the other parts hidden by her clothing. Parts that pulsed and pinked, parts he wanted to kiss and lick. The nipples now straining against the unholy thinness of her blouse would be a dusky rose, maybe darker in keeping with her Mediterranean coloring. Across the curve of her belly, his mouth would suck while his hands would shape those tweeting globes of perfection. Moving to the southern trail, he would find her pretty pink, succulent sex begging for his tongue to taste and own.

The woman needed her own section in the Michelin guide.

“Jack.”

“Hmm?”

“Are you okay? You look a little dazed.” Her lips parted, revealing more luscious pinkness that would look so good wrapped around his—Dazed. Yep, dazed, confused, head-over-nuts in lust. He shook his head to clear it. If only a quick shake of his dick could have the same effect.

“We should finish this,” he said inadequately.

They returned to the original plan—she kneaded, he stared longingly. It wasn’t a bad plan.

“What do you miss about your restaurant?” she asked..

He hesitated, unsure how to answer because he missed too much. That first thirty minutes of service when he gauged the mood of the brigade and how each piece of the machine was operating that night. The haul-arse-hustle as everything came together like a symphony of gliding motion. Even the nights it all went wrong and the only option was to get legless at the basement dive on Tenth while the post-mortem was argued over well into the wee hours.

“The swearing,” he said. “I miss the swearing.”

Their gazes met. Held. She nodded, and relief that she got it drenched him.

“Kitchen crews tend to be close,” she said. “Like family.”

Yes, exactly like that. For someone who didn’t have much in the way of family after his mother’s death when he was barely in his teens, the camaraderie of the kitchen was the next best thing. Jealousy tweaked him that Lili enjoyed the best of both worlds, the restaurant and her big Italian clan.

“Everyone’s in everyone else’s business, that’s for sure,” he said lightly. “Weddings, kids’ soccer games, who’s banging who. My crew at Thyme is mostly Dominican. I’m telling you, if I never go to another quinceñera, it’ll be too soon.”

She laughed, a rich and robust sound that stroked his spine. “Liar. I bet you love line-dancing with all the teenagers. You probably think you’re as good a dancer as you are a singer.”

“Hell, yeah. I’ve got moves you’ve never seen, DeLuca.”

That sent another flush to her cheeks that looked so good on her he felt alternatively aroused and annoyed. He had never wanted something to happen so much, but he couldn’t expect a woman as grounded as this to turn her life upside down for him. The stinking injustice of it all popped him in the gut.

Her smile was sympathetic, an acknowledgment that they had stretched the boundaries of what was possible. Give it up, dude.

They continued in silence, except for her instructions on how to make the pappardelle noodles as thin as possible using the roller. He’d already started the stockpot of boiling water—it came as no surprise that Tony DeLuca didn’t use a commercial pasta cooker—and after a couple of minutes, Jack drained, then dressed the noodles with a quick waltz of the rabbit ragu around a sauté pan. Together, they carried the Chianti, plates, and a basket of truffle oil focaccia he had whipped up earlier out to one of the booths at front of house and settled in.

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