“My Ruff liked the kitchen, too.” She unlocked the door and inched it open to a very dark kitchen, the lingering smell of basil and tomato drawing Ruff like a magnet. “C’mon, boy. Let’s test the scraps of one of those recipes we’ve been googling all night.”
“Test as in taste?” Aidan asked.
“You can taste it. And Ruff can, too.”
“I’m pretty sure that I’ve lived thirty-two years on earth and never met a soul who didn’t eat pizza. Man, woman, child, or beast.”
“Sorry to break your streak,” she said, flipping the switch for the softest lights around the perimeter so the kitchen wasn’t too blindingly bright.
“No wonder you’re struggling with making it.”
Was that the reason? Because she wasn’t going to start eating it now. “You can make something you don’t eat,” she told him.
“Not well.”
She looked up at him and smiled. “Which is why I need you, remember?”
He tapped her nose playfully. “That and my Night Stalker midnight rescue mission skills.”
She laughed at that, mostly to hide the silly thrill that went through her when she thought of this man and the heroic things he’d done at war. “Charlie always played the Night Stalkers down,” she said. “He said he was a glorified bus driver for the much-higher-profile special ops guys.”
“He didn’t want you to know how important we were.”
“Well, I think what you guys did over there was amazing. Especially that last tour.”
She saw Aidan’s shoulders rise and fall as he moved through the kitchen with the familiarity of someone who’d worked there for years, not a few days. “To be fair, there are sexier flying gigs in the Army than taking those monsters up to give rides to the guys who everyone thinks are the real badasses. But it was hard work, very rewarding, sometimes sickening, and a ton of fun.” He stilled for a moment behind the counter, then added, “Until it wasn’t.”
Before she could respond, he paused behind the counter, locked his fingers, and stretched out his hands like a virtuoso getting ready to pick up his instrument.
Even in the dim light, she could make out the shadow of his whiskers and the deep indigo blue of his eyes, the exact color of the plaid shirt he’d yet to button. Under that shirt, chiseled muscles moved as he inhaled and exhaled.
And he hadn’t buttoned the damn jeans.
He studied the dough-rolling counter like it was a chess set and he was the master…and she studied him like he was the only thing for miles she wanted to taste.
“So if you were to try pizza, what’s your topping choice?” he finally asked, opening the proofing drawer to get a doughball they’d made earlier today. “Traditional pep and shrooms, or would you be adventurous?”
“Cheese would be adventurous for me, so make what you want. I’m not hungry.” Her gaze slid down over his abs again, counting the cuts and appreciating each bulge line and vein and that dusting of hair. Not hungry for pizza, anyway.
He looked up, caught her, and his lips slid into a smile as sexy as everything she was ogling. She braced for a tease, an invitation, even a look as smoky as the one she was guilty of giving.
“Please tell me you have beer in this place,” he said.
Oh, Beck. Let it go, girl. She cleared her throat and headed to the fridge. “Uncle Mike has a secret stash behind the blocks of Parmesan in the walk-in,” she said. “I’ll get us some.” Along with a nice chill to take her temperature down to where his was. Cool.
When she came back with two bottles, he was prepping the counter for the dough, sprinkling cornmeal so he could roll out a pie. Cornmeal, not semolina, she noted, determined to use this as a lesson in pizza making…and not anything more lustful than that.
He walked to the oven and peered at the old-school dial, Ruff right at his side. “Six forty-seven, or the pizza gods will cry.”
“You’re learning the ways of Slice of Heaven,” she said, scooting up on the edge of the counter to watch him work. Ruff, finally subdued after his latest escapade, rolled up by the side sink, his gaze glued to Aidan.
Beck sipped a beer as she took in exactly how Aidan folded and rolled and stretched the most perfect circle of dough she’d ever seen.
“How do you do that?” she asked as he worked the edges to make sure they were thicker and would puff up when baked.
“It’s easier now that I made the dough in the mixer. Want to try?” Before she could answer, he curled the edges and rolled the whole thing back into a ball, making her moan for the loss.
“It was perfect, Aidan. Why did you do that?”
“Next one’ll be better ’cause you made it. C’mere.” He took her hand and slid her to the floor, turning her around so she was between the counter and him. Taking her hands in his, he placed them on the dough. “Now…knead.”
Need. That was exactly what shot through her at the sensation of his muscular, hot chest against her back. Her limbs went heavy as if she’d downed the whole beer instead of two sips, and she could barely breathe.
She pressed her fingers into the dough, pushing and prodding until he added his hands to the mix. His powerful fingers massaged the dough, rolling it once, then pressing it with a competent, easy touch that was somehow both powerful and tender.
All she could think about was what those hands would feel like…on her.
“Let’s spread it out now,” he whispered into her ear, making her knees wobble and her stomach tighten.
“You do it,” she said.
He chuckled softly, and she could feel the rumble of his laugh in his chest, and then he used those big, capable hands to cajole the dough into yet another thin, round, perfect pie.
“Now the edge,” he said, taking two fingers and squeezing his way around the circumference, like an artist putting the finishing touches on a sculpture. “Make it a little rough around the edges…” He whispered the words into her ears, fluttering her hair and waking a thousand butterflies in her stomach. “That way the pie crisps up real nice in the oven.”
Transfixed, she put her hand over his, lightly touching his knuckles, following each move, feeling her eyes shutter as the contact danced through her from fingertips to toes.
“See? That wasn’t so…” He stepped back. “Hard.”
Oh boy. “Well, now we need a recipe for sauce,” she said.
Not a recipe for disaster, which was exactly where all this kitchen play was headed.
Swallowing, she slipped away from him and boosted herself back on the counter like the physical connection had had no effect on her at all.
But she did take a deep drink from the beer bottle, trying to quench her desert-dry throat. “Want to hear some of the secret stuff I found?”
Aidan shook his head. “There’s no secret, Beck. Charlie would have told me. It’s in the making, not the ingredients.” He’d already started a pot with some red sauce. Dipping a ladle in, he brought it to his nose and sniffed. “This is exactly how Charlie made it, every time. I know every ingredient, and I followed that recipe to the letter.” He reached his finger in and took a tiny drop, offering it to her. “Taste?”
“You think you can fool me into tasting pizza?”
“A drop of sauce?” He rolled his eyes and popped the finger into his mouth, moaning as he licked the sauce. “That’s good. I wish I had a second opinion, though.”
She pulled out her phone and tapped the link she’d texted to herself. “This guy says sugar is the trick. And another one says anchovies. Claims they add umami, whatever that is.”
“It’s a flavor profile, like salt, bitter, sweet, and sour. Maybe all three. And it’s an essence, too. Kind of like something you really want but don’t know it until you taste it.”
“That sounds promising for a secret sauce.”
He made a face. “Charlie never put anchovies in his sauce.”
She leaned closer and added some edge to her glare. “If it gets Uncle Mike back in here, we want to try it.”
He conceded with a tip of his head. “All right. We’ll try sugar, since that’ll be easy to add to this. How much?”
She held the phone out to show him the recipe, which he studied for about two seconds, nodded, and went for a bag of sugar to stir it into the sauce.
While she watched and appreciated his every move, he took the pan off the burner, let it cool, then loaded up a fresh ladle to pour it over the pizza dough with the same fearless strokes she’d seen her uncle and brother do so many times when she’d had to be in this kitchen. She plopped the stuff on the dough, every time, never even and smooth like that.
He scooped up some cheese and held his hand over the pie without even looking, his gaze on her for a second. Long enough to make her stomach flip and send little jolts of attraction down to her toes. Silent, concentrating, he added some pepperoni slices and a quick dash of dry oregano and glided the cheap aluminum peel under the masterpiece.
Carrying it with one hand, he turned and took a few steps to the pizza oven, pulled the door down with a familiar squeak, and slid the pie into place. Only after he closed the door, put the peel down, wiped his hands on a dishcloth, and took a long pull on his beer, did he talk again.
“So what was it?” he asked, coming to stand right in front of her so that his hips touched her knees. “Found a bug in the dough? Got sick on pepperoni? Allergic to tomatoes? Or maybe you’ve been too close to the stuff your whole life that it’s lost the magic?”
Oh no. She didn’t want to go down that particular rabbit hole. “Doesn’t matter,” she said, purposely picking up her phone to distract him. “Will you try the anchovies tomorrow? I want to taste umami. This guy says it’s the essence of life. That’s extreme.”
“You know what else is extreme?” He gently eased the phone out of her hand and set it down, removing the barrier so that they were eye to eye with her on the counter. “Not eating pizza.”
She angled her head. “Ha ha.”
“Did you ever like it? Have you tried it? Burn your mouth on it?”
“Aidan.”
“I want to know.” He got even closer, his hips making her legs spread to accommodate him. She should change her position or jump off the counter or give him a soft nudge in the other direction.
But she did none of those things, because he happened to be right where she wanted him at that moment.
“Why do you want to know?” she asked.
He searched her face for a few seconds longer, those crystal-blue eyes traveling over every inch, openly assessing what he saw. “You look like him, you know,” he said softly. “You have some of his expressions and mannerisms, and phrases. But…”
“But Charlie ate pizza.”
“Voraciously.”
“Then moving here didn’t affect him the same way it did me,” she admitted softly. “Maybe because he was older. Or a boy. Or…” She lifted her hand and let her knuckles graze his jaw, enjoying the scrape of his whiskers and the shape of his bones. “Had you as a friend.”
“Maybe,” he agreed. “It sure didn’t make him stop eating anything. Did you ever eat it?”
“Of course. I loved it.”
“Until you moved here?”
“Until…” She took a slow breath, willing herself not to get emotional. He wasn’t going to quit until she told him, and honestly, she wanted to tell him. If anyone would understand, it would be someone who knew Charlie and their childhood history. “Until my life got turned upside down and I went to bed one night with two parents and woke up to find out I had none. Then I had to move, without my dog, away from my home, from my friends, and my nice little sixth-grade class at Piedmont Elementary in Allentown, Pennsylvania, to live with my aunt and uncle in someplace called North Carolina…” Her voice trailed off as he cupped her jaw, his hand rough but still so tender and warm.
She closed her eyes and angled into his touch before continuing. “And then my lovely little existence evaporated into…pizza, which will forever be associated with that sorrow. The smell, the taste, the touch, the screech of that thirty-year-old oven door opening and closing. It’s all one big bad memory of a very dark time in my life.”
He used his thumb, that clever, talented thumb, to stroke the skin right under her lip. Slowly, carefully, tugging at her lower lip like he could coax it open. “We should get you over that.”
“Not necessary.” She barely breathed the words since her chest was so tight that her pounding heart felt like it could crack a rib.
“Yes, it is. You can’t do this job until you do, Beck. You gotta bite the bullet. Or the pepperoni, as the case may be.”
She tried to laugh, but the sensations going through her made it impossible. Heat and need and a burn so deep it felt like nothing could ever douse it.
Well, something could. He could.
“Don’t you want to figure out that stupid secret recipe?” he asked, his finger moving over her lip, searing it. “Don’t you want to conquer this shortcoming?”
“Shortcoming? Not eating pizza hasn’t kept me from living to my full potential.”
“Really?” His eyes glinted with a challenge. “’Cause I think it’s paralyzing you. And it’s not helping your aunt or uncle, either.”
She stared at him, hating that, deep, deep inside, she knew he was right. And instead of moving away, changing the subject, or somehow protecting herself, she was…inching closer.
“I don’t want…pizza.” Or trouble, heartache, and loss. But she sure as heck wanted to kiss him.
“Mmm.” Unexpectedly, he stepped away, leaving her cold and achy and wishing he’d come back. He walked to the oven and pulled down the door very slowly, exaggerating the ugly noise.
“Whoops. My bad,” he joked.
“You’re mocking me.”
“I’m helping you.” He peered into the oven. “Look at that beauty. One more minute and we’ll have bubbles and perfect coloring with an unparalleled flop and fold. You’re going to love it.”
“Aidan.” She pushed off the counter in frustration.
“Don’t come over here, Beck.” He held up his hand. “Aroma alert.”
She didn’t smile, even though he did. “I’m glad you think my misery is funny.”
“I don’t think it’s funny, but I do think it’s something you could beat.”
“And making fun of it will beat it?”
He slid the peel in and maneuvered it under the pizza, easing it out with a familiar sound of metal scraping stone, followed by an equally familiar aroma. “Remind me to get this place a legit wooden peel.”
She didn’t answer, but braced for the visceral reaction, but this time, none came. Probably because every cell in her body was too busy battling lust to worry about old memories.
Carrying the peel to the counter, he studied his work, letting it set.
“This is a good pizza, Beck. Maybe a great one. But any chef is going to tell you that you cannot cook if you don’t taste your food.” He picked up a cutter and slid it through the gooey cheese in one easy stroke, then did the same thing sideways. Soon, he had six perfect slices.
Then he closed his hands around one of them, tenderly easing it out of the pack, holding it with his index finger making the fold. The very end flopped a bit, enough for her to know that the dough had been perfection.
“Here it is,” he said, waving it in front of her.
She stepped closer, almost ready to take the dare. “Would it be enough?”
“For what?”
“To shut you up and make you try every single combination of umami and sugar and pancetta and…magic until we have it?”
“It might, yeah.”
She reached out her hand, embarrassed that it was shaking. “’Kay.” She could do this, right? She’d been making the stuff, handling the food, kneading dough, and cooking up sauce for two months. How hard could it be to bite it?
She opened her mouth…and handed the slice back to him. “No, I don’t want it.”
He
blinked in surprise, but nodded. “’Kay. I would never force you to do something you don’t want to do.”
Relief washed over her as he stepped away, taking his pizza to the other side of the kitchen to eat it. Still silent, he crouched down and tore off a few bites to share with Ruff.
Following the relief came a low bubble of anger. Fury, actually, at herself and her stupid, stupid hang-ups.
“It’s not that I don’t want to,” she said softly. “It’s that I can’t. Big difference.”
Very slowly, he straightened and brushed off his hands, studying her while he chewed the last bite. “Why don’t you start small?” he asked after swallowing.
“Just one piece?”
His tongue flicked over his lips as he came closer, his gaze burning right through her. “Just one taste.”
Her whole body tightened as she walked toward him, holding his gaze, each step closing the space between them and ratcheting up a low-grade hum in every cell.
In front of him, almost touching, she looked up at him and the tiny dot of sauce on his upper lip. She’d taste that.
“You have a little sauce on your lip,” she whispered.
“Perfect.” He slid one hand around her waist and used the other to lift her face toward his. “You want it, Beck?”
She practically swayed in his arms, her lips parted with a surprisingly ragged breath. “Yeah.” She breathed the word, her eyes already closing in anticipation.
“You know what’s going to happen, don’t you?”
She sure as hell hoped so. “Mmm. What?”
He lowered his head. “You’re going to want more.”
The sexy words rolled over her, pooling her insides to hot liquid as he barely brushed her lips with his. The kiss was more like air over her mouth, a teasing, torturous test of her strength. Still trembling ever so slightly, she reached out both hands and set them on his shoulders, adding pressure, bringing him closer.
His lips were soft and tender, warm and sure. At her soft moan, he opened his mouth and let their tongues touch, and then she tasted it. Tangy and earthy and peppery and delicious. The taste of…Aidan.
Ruff Around the Edges Page 13
