Chapter 23
We continue driving up a long, winding driveway to a house that looks completely opposite to the bright villa Jason booked for us.
This house looks cozy. Lived-in. Loved. We are well outside of the city now, and I’m only slightly nervous about getting back to Positano and picking up Kate’s champagne in time.
But then Reid gets out of the car and opens my door for me, extending a broad hand to help me out of the car and all my worries melt away.
I place my hand in his with a smile. The fog has started to thicken slightly out here, but I swear I can see the water rippling in the distance as wind starts to pick up.
I can only imagine how gorgeous the views would be from this adorable, comfortable home when the sun in shining.
I’m taking in the exterior of the beautiful little farmhouse and the smattering of brightly colored flowers in its window boxes as we walk up the front steps. “This is a beautiful place to dump my body.”
“I also figured I’d feed you delicious pasta and dessert before depositing you here.”
“The perfect way to go, to be honest.”
He chuckles softly and a smile touches my lips.
Reid pulls my hand and I follow him easily into the home.
The dark wooden door flies open and a man greets him in Italian and Reid, not at all shockingly, replies in near fluent Italian.
I am fully aware I’m staring at him with my jaw on the floor.
There might even be drool on my chin, but I’m incapable of stopping.
I hear my name roll off his perfect tongue and he gestures to me.
When the man turns my way, I finally snap my mouth shut and wave.
He smiles at me, replies to Reid, and just like that we’re walking through a small door.
“When did you learn Italian?” I whisper to him.
“Kai gave me some lessons before we left.”
I gape again. “First of all, Kai is not an expert in language.”
Reid shrugs. “He did a pretty good job helping me.”
“Second of all, when did you and Kai start talking?”
“Shortly after the engagement party.”
“I . . . I have so many follow-up questions.”
He winks at me and my stomach bottoms out. “I’ll answer them all for you after we’re done making delicious food.”
The man gives us a brief tour of what I assume is their actual home as he walks us through the foyer and surprisingly past the kitchen to a huge room at the back of the house.
The walls are all giant picture windows and a glass double door leading to a patio with a set of comfortable-looking patio furniture facing the water.
Excited chatter fills the room from the group of other people in here, waiting to learn about making authentic Italian favorites.
The room smells like fresh herbs and raw dough despite the fact that we haven’t even started cooking anything yet.
We’re greeted with five massive tables covered in baskets of fresh produce, little jars of spices, bags of flour and sugar, and cartons of eggs.
Four of these tables are already filled with other pairs ready to tackle the challenge.
We take our spots at the empty table and Reid wordlessly hands me a basic white apron with a heart made of spaghetti noodles embroidered in the middle.
“What is this?” I ask, looping the apron over my head and tying it around my back.
“An apron.”
“Reid.”
“Pasta-making class.”
I narrow my eyes at him teasingly. “Weird, I thought you were the king of every type of food.”
“I am.”
“Then why are we here?”
“Besides to soak in the culture?” He hooks his own apron around his neck.
I’m only temporarily distracted by the muscles of his arms bunching and flexing as he loops the apron strings around his back and to his front again, expertly tying a neat bow over his abdomen.
“To teach you a new skill,” he says, bringing me back to reality.
“I have plenty of skills.”
“Okay, fine, so I can stand behind you, put my hands on yours, and help you knead pasta dough like a scene in Ghost.”
I lost my ability to inhale immediately after “put my hands on yours,” but I force myself to draw in a ragged breath. “That was pottery.”
“Yeah, and this—” he tucks a loose strand of hair behind my ear and I’m pretty sure I’ve erupted into flames, “—is pasta. You’re going to love it.”
“I’ve had pasta before.”
“Trust me, this will be leagues better.”
He could serve me undercooked boxed macaroni right now and so long as I got to be at a table with him, it would be the best pasta of my life.
“Hello everyone,” a woman says in a thick Italian accent.
She claps her hands together and the room falls silent as we all turn to look her way.
“I am Celeste. Welcome to my home. I am excited to teach you how to make my favorite foods.” She has her own apron on, her black curls are piled on top of her head, and she somehow has a serious, no-nonsense look while also looking like she’d pull me in for the best hug of my life.
I already love and respect her.
She goes through the history of pasta, the ingredients on the table, the steps we’ll be taking.
I’m sure Reid knows all of this information already, but he hangs on her every word, a peaceful look on his face as she talks.
I wonder if he feels in his element, if wearing an apron again and being surrounded by ingredients and kitchen tools just feels so natural to him that it immediately puts him at ease.
I find myself sneaking glances at him as Celeste explains how to properly knead the pasta dough.
After the third glance, he catches me, but I don’t look away.
I don’t feel worried about his reaction or embarrassed to be caught.
Mostly because when he catches me staring, a pleased smile crosses his lips and his arm instinctively snakes around my waist, tugging me against his side as he refocuses on Celeste’s lecture.
And for a brief moment I let myself imagine being back in his kitchen at home, trying to knead out pasta dough together on one of his nights off as we sip wine and listen to music.
Then Celeste claps her hands and says, “Alright, you may begin.” And just like that the vision has popped and I’m back to reality.
Reid reluctantly drops his arm from around me, effectively dropping the temperature in the room by a good five degrees without his touch. I eye the ingredients for anything else to look at besides him and his dark hair and his amused eyes and his gorgeous smile.
“Alright, chef,” I say to Reid. “Let’s see you work.”
“We’re in this together, remember?”
I shake my head. “I don’t think so. I want the full show. Do you crack eggs with one hand?”
He rolls his eyes and dumps a pile of flour in the middle of the table. “No, I do not crack eggs with one hand.”
“Can you?”
He scoffs. “Of course I can. I just don’t. It’s not as efficient for me.”
I push the carton of eggs toward him with a challenging look. He looks down at them, then his eyes flick back up to mine. “You’re really going to make me do this?” he asks.
“You can’t take me to a cooking class and not expect me to want you to show off. Come on, show me your tricks.”
“I’m not a show horse, Jane.”
“No, you’re a chef. Come on, impress me.”
And there’s something in that last challenge that has his eyes glittering and the corner of his lips turning up into a smile.
He glances around the room at the other participants perfectly measuring ingredients and reading paper instructions, then he looks back at me with a new look of encouragement.
“Fine. But you’re not allowed to kiss me until it’s all done.”
“Who says I was going to kiss you?”
“Trust me,” he murmurs in a low, tantalizing voice. “If I show off, you’re going to want nothing more than to kiss me.”
“We’ll see about that,” I mutter back, despite every nerve ending in my body firing like crazy at just his proximity.
He smirks, my heart does another little somersault, and then he backs up, wiping his flour-covered hands on his apron. He holds my gaze as he grabs an egg with one hand, taps it to the counter, and easily opens it onto the pile of flour on the table.
“Oh, wow,” I tease. “You can do it.”
He discards the shell in an empty bowl on the counter, then grabs another, locks his gaze on mine, and cracks the next one. “I told you I could.”
“I know, but I didn’t believe you.”
He presses his free hand to his chest. “‘Ye of little faith. You wound me.” He tosses the empty shell then grabs the next egg, cracking it open with one hand. He tosses the last shell into the bowl and turns to face me, hands extended at his sides.
“Well?” he asks. “Are you impressed or what?”
I slow clap for him. “So impressed. Amazing job, Chef Matthews.”
He pauses for a moment, the smile on his lips grows so wide and so brilliant that my breath catches. “I like that.”
“What?”
“You called me Chef Matthews.”
“I did.”
“Do it again.”
I step up to him so close that our chests brush, holding his gaze as I reach around him for the salt shaker. “Don’t tell me what to do,” I whisper.
He barks a laugh and I step back with a satisfied smile.
As promised, Reid stands behind me, his broad hands guiding mine as we knead and mix the dough together.
His chest is pressed against my back. I can feel his heartbeat, calm and steady, and I vaguely wonder if he can feel how frantic mine is.
Celeste is walking from table to table, checking in on everyone when she stops in front of us.
For a moment, I fear she’s going to tell us he’s being inappropriate by standing behind me and making this a romantic day, but she’s thoughtful as she studies his hands.
“Amazing technique,” she says, eyes catching on Reid’s forearms as he kneads the dough. Honestly, I can’t blame her.
“Lots of practice,” he says quickly. I’m finally starting to realize that he doesn’t speak in full sentences when women come onto him. It’s like a tactic to seem disinterested. I can’t believe I didn’t notice it before.
“Are you a chef?” Celeste asks him.
“I am.”