Page 41 of Sliding Into Love
It was fine, this was fine. She was on adate, for fuck’s sake.
“Is something wrong?”
Shit.
Ivy squeezed her eyes closed, loosing a long, beleaguered sigh. “I’ve been waiting on paperwork for a job for several days, and at this point, I feel like they’ve changed their minds.” Frustration escaped her in a dry laugh. “With budget cuts, there just aren’t that many jobs available, and this is the only thing I’ve found. I thought it was mine but now I’m not so sure. It almost feels like betrayal.”
Ethan held out a hand to help her up from where she’d knelt by her bag. “Is there anything I can do to help?”
“Not unless you know anyone on the school board.”
“I don’t, but I can offer a large donation with a few stipulations.” He gave her a cute, crooked little grin.
“God, no.” It struck her then just how different their worlds were. How different they still were. It was sweet of him to offer. “I mean, thank you, but no. It’s just a waiting game now. At least I hope so. So anyway, I heard something about dinner?” She peered past him to the minimalist kitchen.
Ethan entered the kitchen and pulled two aprons out of a drawer. Ivy raised her eyebrows at him.
He grinned at her.
“I thought we’d make pasta alfredo. You said you like garlic and butter, and it only takes a few ingredients. It’s really simple, but it’s one of my favorites.” With a few quick movements, Ethan had his apron over his head and tied around his waist, holding his hands out in an offer to tie hers. Ivy turned for him, and the feeling of his fingers brushing over her waist sent a shiver down her spine. The heat of his body behind hers was enough to send her heartbeat into outer space, and they were barely touching.
Without thinking, Ivy spun around to face Ethan while his hands remained on her waist. He twitched as if he would pull away, so she grabbed his hands and held them in place. Above her, his eyes widened as he tentatively moved his hands to bracket her hips and stroked his thumbs over her hips. Ivy took half a step back, pressing against the counter, and Ethan followed her like he couldn’t let go once she’d let him touch her. He leaned forward, his hair a dark curtain framing his face. Ivy slowly reached up, afraid to spook him, and slid her fingers through his hair. For a moment, his mouth fell open, then he moved to close the distance between them.
And then Ivy’s stomach growled.
Ethan backed away from Ivy, amazed and a little dazed she’d let him touch her.
He couldn’t breathe, not when she was looking at him the same way she’d eyed her nachos. He didn’t deserve it, didn’t deserveher. He should never have agreed to the date.
But since she was already in his apartment…
“So, dinner?” he asked.
Ivy’s lips formed a pout, but she nodded. Ethan leaned forward again to brush his lips against her temple and whisper in her ear, the scent of her perfume nearly making him lose himself again.
“We’re making pasta. With garlic and butter.”
Ivy perked back up, giving him that sunshine smile, the hints of gold in her eyes sparkling.
It didn’t take Ethan long to find out Ivy really was a shit cook. First, he gave her the knife to chop fresh parsley while he peeled and chopped garlic, but when she squeezed her eyes closed before making the first cut, he put the knife aside, vowing to teach her to chop safely. Next, he put her in charge of melting the butter, but she got so distracted talking to him that she nearly let it burn. He’d been trying to explain baseball’s rules to her, but he watched as her eyes slowly glazed over.
He didn’t mind though; it was fun just talking to her, and he found himself continually distracted. Hence the slightly browned butter. Grating the Parmigiano Reggiano went far better than the garlic or butter, and when she thought he wasn’t looking, she stole bites of cheese. When she wasn’t looking, he glanced at her, taking in the sparkle of her eyes and the way she spoke with her whole body. She valiantly spread the loaf of Italian bread with butter and garlic, proclaiming that garlic bread was impossible to screw up. Finally, Ethan put Ivy in charge of boiling water for the pasta. He was mesmerized as she hopped up on the counter beside the cooking range, glass of wine in hand, and watched him stir more garlic and butter together.
“Fuck, that smells heavenly.” Ivy inhaled deeply and took a tiny sip of her pink wine. Rosé was what she preferred, but when he hadn’t had any, he’d opened a bottle of red and a bottle of white and mixed them, rather than see her be disappointed. The wine gods probably hated him, but Ivy didn’t, so he didn’t care.
“I don’t know what it is about garlic and butter,” Ethan tilted the pan, watching the bubbling concoction, “but it’s always been one of those things that remind me of home. My mom wasn’t much of a cook, but my dad was, and he cooked all the time. I used to come home after practice and smell this and…” he stopped talking.
“Oh, I’m so sorry, are they…” Ivy trailed off.
“No.” He sighed. “We just don’t talk anymore. Have you ever heard of Jimmy Fisher?”
“Sounds familiar, but I can’t place him. Why?”
Ethan was surprised, and Ivy’s lack of knowledge about his family was refreshing. Encouraging. He continued.
“He’s… my dad. He pitched for the Tornadoes in the nineties.” Ethan didn’t look at Ivy as he whisked heavy cream into the butter and garlic. “He was inducted into the Baseball Hall of Fame a few years ago.”
“How cool! Was it more like a party or just a bunch of dudes in expensive suits shaking hands? I always wonder about those sorts of things.”
