Chapter 11 #2
By nights four and five – homemade pizza and then enchiladas – I’m a churning mess of desperate craving and the need to prevent myself making another mistake that could cost me even more.
I don’t seem to be able to appreciate him without also wanting him the way I used to when he first started working with me.
I tell myself that three years of being kept dangling by Jackson has twisted my sense of how fucking hot it is to do something dangerous and stupid, but I was doing dangerous and stupid things long before I met him.
Caleb isn’t dangerous or stupid. He fits in my home like it’s always been his, too, and I enjoy seeing him working away in the cinema room, or closing his eyes when he gets a particularly good bite of food that I made him.
It feels natural to have him here. I like having him here. His presence fills me up in a way Jackson’s never did because I was always chasing more with him and he was always holding back. Caleb doesn’t hold back.
Tonight is our last night before we fly out to Belgium and our cosy flat-share is no more. I’m really going to miss it. I’m going to miss him.
He is brilliant. Watching him work hurts my brain, but he’s so smart.
One night I asked him to tell me about his thesis and wow.
Wow. The way he understands the aerodynamics of the car is insane.
He’s wasted being stuck at the pit wall.
But I also see, day-to-day in the factory, how much he has to offer to this team.
I thought at first that he was shy and quiet, but he’s quick to offer his opinion when needed and he confronts problems head-on.
I see how much respect he’s earned from the experienced guys on the team, how they listen when he speaks because he doesn’t fill the air with unnecessary chatter. It’s impressive.
It only makes him more attractive to me when it really, really shouldn’t.
I shouldn’t be daydreaming in a strategy meeting about the braised-rib tagliatelle I’m going to make him tonight.
How I’m going to spend precious time rolling out my own pasta like I’m applying to be on MasterChef, even though I have the ready-made stuff in my pantry.
Maybe I’m hoping he’ll let me teach him.
I could wrap my arms around him and show him how to knead the dough, then together we could gently feed it into the machine and hang it to dry on the special stand.
The fantasy turns dirty in my mind as I imagine pressing myself against his back and kissing his neck. I conjure up an image of his little, pink-tipped ears as he feels the hard length of my cock nudging his ass cheeks. Perhaps he turns around and we—
‘Johannes?’
I’m brought suddenly back down to earth as the meeting we’re in seems to have wrapped up and everyone is standing to go.
Shit. This has got to stop.
I hope I didn’t miss anything crucial.
‘Yeah, thanks, see you tomorrow,’ I say, standing up and acknowledging the voice that broke through my sexy little daydream.
I carry my file of papers in front of me to hide the evidence of my arousal as we all file out of the room.
It’s been a long week and the team has been working harder than ever to make the second half of the season even better.
We’re getting an impressive package of upgrades to set us apart from the Hendersohm team.
We won’t win the constructor’s championship this year, but I need every millimetre and millisecond to keep myself in contention for the driver’s championship.
When we get back to my apartment, Caleb puts down his things and cracks his neck side to side, before rolling out his shoulders.
‘What a week. I’m exhausted.’
‘Me, too,’ I say, watching his shoulders flex and roll.
‘But I do love a week in the factory, and this has been a good one. I know I’ve already said this but thank you for letting me stay. It’s been so nice to come home in the evenings and properly switch off from day-to-day work.’
‘I’ve loved having you here. You’re welcome any time.’
I mean it. I mean it so much I can’t even begin to think about it deeply.
I’ve never cooked for someone like this, put effort and care into making each evening the perfect relaxing occasion – pairing wine, adjusting mood lighting, making everything from scratch.
I certainly didn’t do it for Harper when he lived here, and Jackson never stepped foot in the place.
‘Thanks. I’m going to take a shower. Do you need help with anything?’ Caleb asks.
‘Take your time. I can put you to work when you’re ready.’
I pull out all the ingredients I’m going to need for dinner.
Luckily, the meat has been roasting in the slow-cooker all day, so when I take it out, it falls off the bone.
My mouth waters at the smell as I set up a station to make pasta, before slipping into the pantry to analyse the wine rack for the perfect bottle of red to cook with and another to consume with dinner.
I take my time, reading the labels and thinking about what will work. I’m definitely not waiting to hear the water go off and then for his feet to pad down the hallway to the kitchen.
It’s pure coincidence that I’m weighing out the flour when he joins me on the opposite side of the island, his damp hair curling around his neck and brow in a way that makes my balls tighten.
‘You fancy helping?’
I’m in so much trouble.
‘Of course, put me to work.’
Don’t tempt me.
He washes his hands, before stepping up by my side.
‘Okay, so we’re going to need to make a little well in the middle of the flour for the eggs and then we’ll crack them in and meld it all together.’
‘That easy?’ he asks.
‘That easy,’ I confirm. I don’t tell him this is just the start of what can feel like an endless process to get it right, not when his eyes light up with the excitement to learn. ‘Make sure you keep the flour walls intact. It makes it easier for it all to come together.’
I crack three eggs into the nest he’s built.
He’s quick to get stuck into the messy mixture because he’s careful and takes instruction well.
He kneads the dough, and I try not to watch the muscles in his strong forearms flex and twitch.
I try not to think of the fantasy I had of pressing up against him.
I force myself to stand back and let him do it on his own, because I know that if I put my hands on top of his hands, then I’m definitely fucking him tonight.
Probably before we’ve even finished making dinner.
I blink to clear my head and before I know it he has a golden mound of dough ready to start to shape.
‘Okay, break it into four and then we’ll roll it out manually into ovals, before we pass it through the machine.’ He gets on with that whilst I set up the pasta attachment on my KitchenAid.
I turn my back for two seconds and the ovals he’s rolled out are pizza length and thickness. I chuckle to myself, before reaching round to stop him rolling the dough out to almost a see-through density.
‘Too thin?’ he asks.
‘A little.’ I gesture an inch between my thumb and first finger and a grin stretches across his face as he laughs.
‘Where did you learn how to do this?’ he asks.
‘I did a course,’ I say.
‘You’re kidding.’
‘Just a one-day thing at a fancy restaurant in the city. I won it in a silent auction at a charity event.’
‘And then you practised,’ he says. It’s a statement, and I bask in the warmth of his admiration.
‘You haven’t tasted it yet,’ I say.
‘You do everything well,’ he says and then blushes.
I move closer to show him the right thickness for the pasta dough and realise I have rested my hand on his hip as he feeds it through the machine.
‘I’ve never even thought to make my own pasta,’ he says shakily as my thumb caresses the bare skin of his hip where his T-shirt’s ridden up. ‘Mom always just had like big ten-kilo bags in the cupboard. Feeding three football players always took a lot and I loved to eat.’
He’s watching intently as the small blades separate the dough into tagliatelle-width strands, but I’m more mesmerised by him.
How grass-green his eyes are from right here.
How his auburn lashes flutter over his cheeks.
How soft his hair looks and how much I want to run my fingers through it. How much I really want to.
I take note of every single freckle that makes up the constellation across his nose and cheeks and even some down the side of his neck. I long to pull his T-shirt over his head to see how far they stretch.
The final piece of dough runs through the machine and we spend a peaceful few minutes hanging them strand by strand to dry out.
I stir the sauce that’s coming together in a pan, and he opens the wine and pours us both a glass.
We lean against the countertop, thighs and hips brushing as we sip, the homely aroma of a pasta dish coming together wrapping us up in a warm, cosy bubble.
I don’t want to speak. I don’t want to burst that bubble and let the outside world in. I want this evening to go on forever.
‘You’re thinking hard over there,’ he says in barely a whisper, almost like he wants to stay trapped in the bubble, too.
‘Just thinking about how much I’ve loved this week.’ I gulp down a mouthful of a delicious red and rest the glass down on the counter. That same hand now snakes around to the small of his back and creeps under his T-shirt. We’re in a bubble where the outside world can’t touch us…
He shivers and leans into my touch. With a hum, he replies. ‘Me, too.’
There’s nothing more to say. There’s no point pretending we’re talking about anything else but this domestic bliss we seem to have found.