Page 41 of Ice To Meet You

“Papa? Shouldn’t pasta dough bounce?”

He laughed. “Are you planning on throwing it around the room?”

“No.”

“Then why do you need it to bounce?”

“Not bounce exactly. More like squash under pressure. Ithas to go through a pasta roller, after all. I read something about gluten doing something scientific when it’s rested.”

He chuckled again. “I’m sure it’s fine. Gluten does what gluten does. The true hero is the sauce you dress the pasta with.”

My gut twisted. I’d assumed my homemade pasta would save any flaws in the store-bought sauce, not add to them. First, the wine blunder—now this. If the pasta turned out like cement, what did that say about my ability to deliver a stunning new gallery? With the wrong wine and a jar of stir-in sauce, I was hardly selling myself as a solid investment.

Did the Rossis actually give a damn about my culinary skills? Probably not. But someone who couldn’t handle the pressure of a low-key dinner without spiralling wouldn’t make the best impression.

“Papa, I have to go.” Could he hear the shakiness in my voice? “Thanks for your help. I’ll call you later.”

I ended the call and laid my phone down on my shiny countertop. Sticking out my index finger, I prodded my pasta dough again. Nothing. No “give” under the pressure. I tipped my head to one side. Maybe I expected too much? Maybe not every pasta ball needed elasticity? I sighed. Only one way to find out. Time to find my pasta machine.

I found the machine hidden at the back of a cupboard. It was covered by a set of colanders and a biscuit tin decorated with teddy bears. I pulled out the box, brushing the dust off its top. I ran my hand over the cardboard, pulling my brows together. I’d only ever used the machine once, but I didn’t remember the brown spots on the box.

A sinking feeling settled in my chest as I tore open the cardboard. The once-shiny machine was ruined—not just speckled with rust, but utterly caked in it, like a forgotten metal bucket left out in the rain.

I grabbed a fork from the cutlery drawer and scraped at thedamage with unsteady hands. It was no use. The rust had eaten deep into the metal. I could’ve sworn I dried it after washing, but the evidence told a different story.

When the fork made no progress, I pulled out the big guns, banging the machine with a large wooden rolling pin. A few determined whacks later, I tried the handle again, but the mechanism didn’t budge. “Merde,” I muttered, jabbing at the dough. It still refused to yield. Any fettuccine I made from this solid mound would probably taste like bicycle tires.

I crossed the kitchen, rifling one handed through my dry food cupboard for something, anything, to dig me out of the gaping culinary hole I’d dug for myself. I needed pasta. I couldn’t hand-roll my dough in its current state.

I pulled packets out, searching all the corners, but all I found were fancy spirals. There was no way to pass them off as homemade. They were too uniform. Too perfect. The Rossis would know I’d made none of the food myself.

“Non, non, non!”I shouted, my voice echoing off the high ceiling.

I was just going to have to use the spiralsandthe jar sauce. I had no choice. Any decent caterers would be fully booked, and I was too late to make reservations at a good restaurant. Standard take-away food just wouldn’t cut it—not tonight. A massive ball of pressure built up in my chest and I let out a growl.

The sound barely finished reverberating off the walls when a knock at the door startled me.

My blood ran cold, and I looked at the clock. If the caller was the Rossis, they were incredibly early. I’d heard no one out in the stairwell. My hallway was notoriously echo prone. Any visitor would have had to creep up the old stone steps to arrive in silence. I froze, listening. Maybe I had a burglar.

I tightened my fingers around my rolling pin and moved to my front door. When I arrived, I pressed my ear to the wood.Only soft shuffling. What did a burglar even sound like? I took a breath and tentatively opened the door.

Matteo stood on the step. He wore grey sweatpants, his skin glistening with a light sheen of perspiration. His chest rose and fell against the snug white T-shirt he wore, the outline of his pecs searing themselves into my mind.

“What are you doing here?”

“I’ve been out for a run. I left a book downstairs.”

I leaned out into the hallway. The door leading up from the gallery hung open. He must have come upstairs that way. I’d given him his own gallery key yesterday. No wonder I didn’t hear him.

“You said you were going away this weekend.”

He shrugged. “I had a change of plans. Everything I needed to do I could do in Paris.”

He glanced behind me, scanning the apartment. “Are you okay? I heard shouting.”

I gave a wry laugh. “That was just me. I like to take my frustrations out on inanimate objects.”

His eyes tracked down to my hand. “A rolling pin?”

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