Breakfast on Tuesday

18. Happy girl

I guessed that was all I was getting out of him for now and I didn't push him for more. His mother was still a sensitive subject if the rigid fix of his jaw was any indication.

"No, I haven't. Does watching TikTok videos count?"

He shook his head at me, making his disapproval known.

He moved to stand behind me and then placed his large hand over mine, showing me how to knead the dough.

"Press with the heels of your hands like this. That's good. Now press the dough outward and then fold it toward you."

"Like this?"

"Not quite."

His hands were sure and they guided mine confidently, pressing into the soft ball of dough repeatedly.

"Your turn," he said, and because I had been so focused on the feel of his hand on mine, I couldn't reproduce what he'd taught me.

"You have the hands of a crab," he said next to my ear, his rich voice rumbling in my brain while his hard chest pressed into my back.

I laughed and his soft chuckle followed. The sound of our laughter blending in the swanky upscale kitchen unlocked a memory I had buried a long time ago.

I was transported back to my childhood home in Haiti, to the little concrete house that was painted blue and had a zink roof. It was where I lived with my mom and dad up until I was seven years old.

The kitchen was small but it was more than a lot of people around us had. My mother was a chef, trained in France by a Haitian chef with a Michelin starred restaurant who taught her how to cook Creole food. It was soul food, it was life and magic. It was healing.

My father, a lawyer, and a teddy bear of a man loved to eat. And my mother loved cooking for him.

The two of them were always in the kitchen, laughing or giggling, gossiping about the neighbors. They sometimes fought in the kitchen, but mostly they cooked together and laughed.

Just like Dante and I were doing now.

"Have you ever seen a crab kneading dough?" I asked.

"Yes, there's one standing right in front of me."

I stuck my finger in the flour bag and swiped it across his cheek. "How do you like this crabby finger?"

His eyes hardened and I ran away giggling, going around the counter, my heart beating wildly in my chest. I made it to the other side of the counter, still laughing and Dante regarded me with his glassy eyes that were almost intimidating in their intensity.

Without warning, he sprinted around the counter, and faster than Usain Bolt, he came down on me. I laughed, moving further away, hoping to outrun him.

"I'm sorry," I said, no longer able to contain my laughter. In passing, I grabbed a plastic spatula and tried to ward him off, but it only slowed him down momentarily. When I saw that my deadly kitchenified weapon wasn't going to help me, I dropped it and scurried like the cops were running after me.

I must have taken only three steps when he caught my wrist in a tight grip, turned me around, and brought the finger that had soiled his cheek to his mouth.

Time stood still when he swiped his tongue up from the inside of my knuckle to the pad of my finger, licking off the fine coat of flour left on it.

My core tightened and my tongue glued itself to the roof of my mouth. I stared up at him, my gaze clouding over with a passionate need I knew he could see, but that I also saw mirrored back in his.