Second Time Around

Chapter Sixteen

Sunlight streamed into the spacious kitchen and the breeze was a little stronger now as it blew in through the open windows above the sink. It ruffled through Kelly's hair as she stood at the island, staring down at the flour as it spilled from her carefully made well across the huge wooden cutting board. "Why can't I just do this on the counter? Isn't that why you get granite countertops?"

Tony leaned up against the counter, resting his elbow on the granite surface. "Trust me, wood is better because it isn't cold. Cold and pasta dough don't play nicely together."

She pulled the fork in her left hand through the inner wall of the flour, spilling more flour into the eggs. "I don't think this is working. What am I doing wrong?"

She glanced over to find him smiling. He hadn't lied about how much patience he had when it came to teaching. By now, she'd have thrown herself out of the kitchen and called it a day. But he didn't. He just shook his head. "You're not doing anything wrong, Kel. You need to use your hands now. It gets to the point where the fork just doesn't cut it any more. So, dig in."

"My hands?" She grimaced as she stared down at the paste of eggs and flour. "You mean, like I did with the bread dough?" It was probably going to take days for her to get the remains of the bread dough out from under her nails.

He nodded. "It won't kill you."

"You better hope not."

"Trust me."

She stared back at the eggy glop, and took a deep breath. "Okay. Here goes nothing."

With that, she thrust her hands into the glop and began to knead, trying to squish it all together. At first, the eggs were still cold and the olive oil coated her hands as she went to work kneading. It didn't seem to be doing a whole lot of good. The dough was sticky and crumbling and she offered up a silent prayer that when she was finished, it would actually be edible.

Tony watched over her shoulder, and then he smiled and moved to stand behind her. A moment later, his hands came down to join hers in the glop. "Like this, honey. You want it elastic, so you can't rush."

Her hands went still and she eased them out as he went to work kneading the dough. He made it look so easy, so she waited a beat, then dove back into it. This time, he drew his hands back. "See? You're getting it."

"I don't know about that. I told you the other night, I'm Irish, we don't do pasta, unless it comes out of a box."

"Yeah, and I told you I'm Italian and my mother would have my head if she knew I ate pasta from a box."

Wincing as the dough stuck to her fingers in huge, pasty clumps, she said, "Okay. You win. I'll be a good sport. But I can't promise this will be at all edible."

"It'll be fine." He moved to the sink and washed his hands. Drying them on a dishtowel, he said, "So, while this rests, we can open a bottle of wine and I'll get the butter and garlic thrown together."

She nodded, the small muscles in her arms and hands letting her know what they thought of all the kneading. First bread dough, now this. They were going to hate her come morning.

Still, it was one of the most pleasant lazy Saturdays she could recall. Two loaves of French (Italian?) bread were cooling on a wire rack by the stove. Fresh sauce simmered on the range, the delicate hints of garlic and basil wafting on that wonderful autumn breeze. She never would have taken Tony as much of a cook, but he proved her laughably wrong.

She peered over her shoulder at him as he moved to the range to stir the sauce. He was a man full of surprises--so much more than the pretty face and amazing body he'd been when she was in high school.