Page 34 of Your Rule to Break
Emilie is definitely a rule follower. There were a few times I tried jumping ahead like half a step, and she’d gently put her hand on mine and shake her head no.
“Oh, you’re one of those good girls.” Before the words exit my mouth, I’m holding back a laugh.
“Wouldn’t you like to know?” She doesn’t take her eyes from Chef as he’s showing us how to make cheese paste, which I hope tastes better than it sounds.
Fuck. Yes. I would like to know.
“Isn’t it fun to be bad every once in a while?”
“Again, wouldn’t you like to know?” This time she turns to me, her eyes daring me to keep going.
“Maybe I would, EJ.” I use her nickname, the one I know she likes, and I find that we’re too close for a public cooking class.
I feel her breath on the side of my face as I lean over her shoulder. My dick has forgotten we’re in public, and I quickly think of anything else to get myself under control: ice baths, TRX bands, wall sits with weights on my legs.
I pay attention to Beau because, even though he’s a handsome man and probably feeds his lovers like royalty, he’s not Emilie. Good thing I did—turns out, cheese paste is hard. Basically, cacio e pepe doesn’t use butter or milk to create the creamy sauce. It’s just pasta water, pecorino cheese, and pepper.
I'm using our glass bowl, trying to get the paste on the outside so we can toss the pasta, while Emilie is finishing the pasta. Chef made us all fresh pasta before the class—what a guy.
“My fingers are starting to cramp,” I whine while I hold a chilled metal spoon, using the round edge to help with the paste consistency.
“Oooh. Bad sign,” Emilie gloats as she delicately stirs the pasta.
I bite my lip and won’t give her the satisfaction of a laugh—even though that was a good one.
“Don’t mangle the cheese with those hands,” she says as I'm putting pressure on the inside of the bowl.
“I bet you think about these hands,” I tease, as I'm so laser focused on not a piece of this bowl showing through this cheese paste situation.
“What if I do?” Emilie quips, and my body freezes. I slowly turn and catch her looking at me. Her curls are wild today, just how I love ‘em. She shrugs her shoulders before draining the rest of her wine, her hazel eyes looking at me through the glass.
Fuck, does she think about my hands? About me? Touching her?
I grab the bottle of wine and pour more in her glass. I close the space between us, but she doesn’t look up from the pasta she’s stirring. With a finger under her chin, I tip her face up until she has no choice but to look at me.
“What if I thought about my hands in these curls, pulling them?” I wrap a crimson curl around a finger for emphasis.
Emilie’s eyes are on me, and it’s just the two of us. The rest of the room fades in the background, like I'm living a fucking rom-com, and I don’t question it.
“Quit looking at me like that.” Her voice is quiet through her devilish grin.
“Like what?”
“Like I’m on the menu,” she enunciates as I continue to twist her hair around my fingers. We keep leaning in, getting closer and closer.
Fuck.
“Your cheese paste is damn near perfect! Très bien. It’s good.” We immediately step back from one another, as Beau has our bowl in his hands, inspecting. “Do you want to tell everyone your secret?” he asks.
“Well, you see, got those championship hands.” I wiggle my fingers, and the group laughs.
The moment is over, but it feels like this whole thing is just getting started.
“This is the bestpart of cooking class.” I spin a bite of pasta on the spoon, like Chef showed me, and take a bite. The sauce is smooth and peppery—not too rich—and might be one of my new favorite dishes. It’s probably a saving grace that cheese paste is kind of a bitch to make because I could easily eat this a few times a week.
Outside of the cooking space, there’s a small patio with room for seven tables—one for each couple. Twinkly lights are strung from the roof of the building to the one next door, creating the perfect vibe.
I get it. This seems like such a fun thing to be able to do.