“A friend from my first construction crew. Michelle, but everyone called her Mixie because she mixed up measurements all the time. Never met a fraction she couldn’t convert wrong.”
The memory warms me, a bubble of the past rising to the surface. “She once ordered enough concrete to pave half a county when we only needed to do a small driveway.”
Jared laughs, the sound filling my kitchen and wrapping around me. “What happened to the extra?”
“The boss sold it at a discount to other crews. Mixie got assigned to design work after that, away from the numbers.” I grab a pot from the cabinet, setting it on the stove with a metallic clang. “Oil the pan first, then we’ll start the sauce.”
He steps around me to reach the olive oil, his height forcing me to tilt my head back to maintain eye contact. The narrow kitchen shrinks with his presence, and my breath catches when his arm brushes mine.
“Sorry,” he murmurs, stepping back to give me space.
“It’s fine.” I slide the bowl of onions andmushrooms toward him. “Add these once the oil heats.”
Our fingers connect again in the handoff, and this time I don’t pull away. His skin burns fever-warm, his pulse visible at his wrist. The moment stretches until Mixie’s insistent meow breaks it.
“She needs fresh water.” I step back to put distance between us. “The pasta’s in the cabinet by the back door if you want to get it ready. Directions are on the package. Once the water’s boiling, add lots of salt.”
As I fill Mixie’s bowl, my back to Jared, I hear him opening cabinets, then the rustle of the pasta box and the soft clatter as he sets it on the counter. Domestic sounds my kitchen has never known. My chest tightens with a mix of panic and yearning, which is far more complicated.
“Is this the right kind?” he asks.
I turn to find him holding the box of lasagna noodles, shifting from one foot to the other with a need for approval that resonates with a part of me I’ve tried to silence.
“That’s perfect.” The words sound steadier than I feel as I move back to his side.
The sauce comes together while the noodles boil, and when the timer goes off, Jared drains thepasta, steam curling up around his face and adding more moisture to his already damp hair.
He checks with me for confirmation before shaking the colander a little too vigorously, water spraying across the counter.
I hand him a towel to clean it up. “Gentler next time.”
He grins, unrepentant, and wipes up the droplets before setting the noodles aside.
On the stove, the sauce simmers, filling the kitchen with the scent of garlic, tomatoes, and oregano. Jared leans in to stir, his movements tentative until I show him how to scrape the bottom so nothing sticks.
He listens closely, his arm brushing mine each time he circles the spoon through the bubbling mixture, and my stomach tightens at the warmth of his nearness and how intently he waits for cues.
When the sauce thickens, I slide the baking dish toward him and guide him through the next step. “First, a thin layer of sauce at the bottom, to keep the noodles from sticking.”
Jared uses the spatula to cover every corner.
I lay the first noodle across the sauce-covered bottom of the dish, the edges curling up the sides of the glass. Jared reaches for one, too, his long fingerspinching the slippery pasta only to have it fold in on itself, sticking to itself.
He mumbles under his breath, a flush creeping up his neck as he tries to straighten it without tearing the delicate sheet.
“Here.” The word slips out softer than I mean it to as I reach across him. “Hold it at both ends, then lower it.”
I demonstrate with another noodle, laying it alongside his mangled attempt.
“I’m a failure as a construction worker, defeated by pasta.” His self-deprecating laugh cuts too close to home.
I wipe my hands on a clean towel and touch his cheek where a smear of sauce has left a red streak. “You’ve got?—”
The words die as his skin warms beneath my fingers, and his pulse quickens at his throat.
I brush the sauce away. “There.”
His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows. “Thanks.”