Page 29 of Quinn

His eyes crinkled at the corners. “Can’t have rebellious pasta.”

“While we wait,” she grabbed a cutting board, “we can prep the sauce. Hand me those mushrooms?”

They fell into an easy rhythm—Quinn chopping where directed, Eloise stirring and seasoning. She found herself increasingly aware of his movements, the careful precision he brought to each task. The same attention to detail he showed in his construction work translated surprisingly well to cooking, expertly mincing garlic as she’d shown him. She tossed the additional ingredients into the simmering sauce and stirred. Taking a small taste, she seemed content with the seasoning.

“How long does the sauce have to cook?”

“Hours.”

“Hours?” Those eyes popped open wide again.

“Here.” She held her hand under a spoon and drew closer to his mouth. “Taste.”

He blew softly before slurping up the taste of red sauce. For a second she thought, his eyes were going to roll back in his head. “Whatever you’re doing, keep it up. This is the best sauce I’ve ever had.”

“And it’s not done yet either.”

The timer dinged, signaling the dough had rested long enough. Reluctantly, Eloise took a step in retreat. Too bad she didn’t have the nerve to move forward instead of back and kiss the drop of sauce away from the corner of his mouth. Now wouldn’t that be something worth keeping up?

Eloise turned to clear the counter, dusting it liberally with flour. “Ready for the tricky part?”

What he was ready for was to toss the pasta aside, pull her into his arms and kiss her senseless, but that was sadly out of the question. “Ready as I’ll ever be.”

She unwrapped the dough, cutting it into manageable sections. With her palm, she pressed on the first piece. Hands much smaller than his moved with a confidence that spoke of years of practice. The same hands that had made that incredible sauce now worked magic with flour and eggs.

“You really love the kitchen.” It wasn’t really a question.

Continuing to mix the ingredients in front of her, she nodded. “One of my foster parents was a pretty good cook. Learned from her Italian grandmother. That’s where I learned how to make the spaghetti sauce, or gravy as she called it. She’s the one who taught me to use carrots instead of sugar to cut the acid of the tomatoes.”

“Having tasted the sauce—er, gravy—so far, I’m really glad she shared her secrets.”

A shadow fell over her eyes. “We were only with her for a couple of years when she had a stroke. Couldn’t take care of us anymore, so we moved to yet another foster home.”

“I’m sorry.” He didn’t know what else to say. Right about now, he wished that she’d had a happy and loving family to live with all her life. She hadn’t said much, but he knew most of the homes were less than optimal. He was terribly tempted to pull her into a hug and promise her that her life would be forever perfect.

On a deep sigh, she reached for more flour, spreading some on the counter, and placing a drop on the tip of his nose. “Oops.”

“Oops?” He let out a laugh, about to reach for the open flour container.

“Ah, ah.” She shook her head, giggling and shoved a dish rag in his hand. “We have pasta to make.”

“Mm,” he muttered, wiping the flour from his nose. “Pasta.”

“That’s right. Pasta.” Still giggling under her breath, she picked up a rolling pin. “First we need to flatten it. Starting in the center, you work outward.”

“You, as in me?”

Her grin widened, but she didn’t say a word. Just in case she was planning another flour attack, he took a half step in retreat.

He tried to concentrate on the dough rather than the sweet smile that always seemed to have a way of making his stomach do back flips whenever she flashed it in his direction, or the way the sunlight shining through the kitchen windows caught the golden highlights in her hair.

“Your turn.” She handed him the rolling pin.

His first attempt was too heavy-handed. The dough stuck to the wooden surface.

“More flour.” She reached across him to add flour.

“Careful with that,” he teased.

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