Page 28 of Quinn

The back door slammed shut and she thought it might be her brother, only Quinn came in stomping his feet.

She didn’t know enough about ranching, but from the amused glint in his aunt’s eyes when he told her why he needed to skip church as well this morning, Eloise hoped the real reason had something to do with her. It was silly, and a little school girlish, but she couldn’t help how she was feeling.

Eloise looked up as Quinn stepped into the kitchen, the back door closing behind him. The rich aroma of her meat sauce simmering on the back burner hung in the air. “You’re just in time.” She reached for the canvas apron hanging by the pantry. “I’m making pasta from scratch for supper.”

Silently, Quinn eyed the orderly chaos spread across the kitchen counters—flour, eggs, olive oil, and salt arranged neatly beside her wooden board and rolling pin.

“From scratch?” He hung his hat on the peg by the door. “I thought that’s what stores were for.”

“Blasphemy.” She laughed and tossed him the spare apron. “Nothing compares to homemade. I’ve been wanting to try Aunt Eileen’s pasta roller since I spotted it tucked away in the pantry.”

Quinn chuckled, hesitantly taking the apron. “Glad someone knows what that thing is for. I’m not sure even Aunt Eileen does.”

“Now you’ll both know.” She measured flour onto the wooden board, creating a small mountain. “I’m guessing you’ve never made pasta before?”

He shook his head. “Can’t say it was on my list of life skills to acquire.”

“Well, today’s your lucky day.” She made a well in the center of the flour mound, almost like a volcano. “Hand me those eggs?”

Quinn passed them to her, watching curiously as she cracked four eggs into the center of her flour crater.

“Now for the magic.” She drizzled olive oil and sprinkled salt over the eggs. “See how the flour creates a wall to keep the eggs contained? That’s the first trick.”

“Does it always work?” He leaned closer, genuinely interested.

“Not always.” She smiled, remembering countless messes in culinary school. “Which is why we start in the center and work our way out. Here, I’ll show you.”

Using a fork, she began beating the eggs, gradually incorporating flour from the inner walls of her volcano. Quinn watched, his eyes gleaming with focus and teetering with fascination at the transformation as the mixture slowly became more solid.

“This is where it gets hands-on.” She set the fork aside. “Ready to get messy?”

His brows shot up a moment before he stretched out his arms and rolled his sleeves up, revealing tanned forearms. “I’m all yours.”

Now her brows rose to her hairline and then she had to hold back her laughter when he realized how those three little words could mean something totally different.

“Uh,” he cleared his throat and swallowed hard, “I mean, uh,” He sighed. “Never mind.”

Chuckling, she returned her attention to the mound in front of her. “Start pulling in more flour, like this.” She worked her fingers to incorporate more flour into the sticky mixture. “Don’t worry about getting it perfect. Pasta dough is forgiving.”

Quinn’s large hands looked almost comical next to her practiced ones, but he followed her lead, cautiously working flour into the developing dough.

“That’s it,” she encouraged. “Now we need to knead it until it’s smooth and elastic.”

Quinn’s expression remained skeptical as they worked the dough together. “How do you know when it’s ready?”

“I feel it.” She pressed her palm into the increasingly smooth mixture. “It’ll tell you when it’s right. Here, try.”

Placing her hands on either side of his, she guided them to the dough, surprised by how naturally he took to the motion—pushing forward with his palms, folding the dough back, turning it slightly, and repeating. The kitchen filled with comfortable silence, broken only by the soft sounds of kneading and the occasional gust of wind rattling the old windows.

“You’re a natural,” she observed, ignoring the urge to place her hands on his again as he worked the dough.

“Had a good teacher.” His voice came out softer than usual, almost intimate in the quiet kitchen.

The dough gradually transformed under their hands, becoming silky and elastic. When Eloise pressed her finger into it, the dough sprang back immediately. “Perfect.” She brushed flour from her hands. “Now we let it rest.”

“Rest?” Quinn’s eyebrows buckled together. “Dough needs a nap?”

Wrapping the dough in plastic, she didn’t bother to hide her laughter. “Thirty minutes, minimum. Gives the gluten time to relax. Otherwise, your pasta fights back when you try to roll it.”

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