Only You by K.T. Quinn

13

Molly

The Day We Got Dirty

“This wasn’t the kind of messy I expected.”

I was standing in front of the divider between our rooms, which was open. I had dragged my desk over, cleaned it thoroughly with soap, and then when it was dry I sprinkled flour across the surface. Donovan was directly in front of me in his kitchen, punching a big roll of dough and sending bits of flour in all directions.

“I promise it will leave you satisfied,” he said over his shoulder in a sexy voice. “What’s more satisfying than being filled with thick, salty pasta?”

I laughed and said, “You’re not wrong.”

Together, on either side of the dividing doorway, we made pasta together. Donovan had a technique where he cracked an egg open on the counter, then spun it around the flour until it slowly began coalescing into dough. Every so often he splashed a little water or oil on the counter too. When he was done, he tossed the dough to my side of the room, where I continued kneading it with my fingers and rolling it smooth.

“Punch it,” he instructed.

“I’m not a violent person.”

“Trust me, the dough is asking for it. Go on. Make a fist and pound it like you’re on a real third date.” He said it with a wink.

I bent my head to the dough so he couldn’t see my cheeks redden. I rolled the dough into a ball, then sank my fist into it with a satisfying smack.

“Atta girl,” he said in a husky voice.

“Stop making it sound so dirty!” I laughed while using the dough as a punching bag. “This is fun. Forget dinner. I want to do this all night.”

“Easy there, Rocky,” he said. “I think you finished it off. Give it here.”

I tossed it through the doorway, and Donovan caught it like a football receiver. He fed the dough into a pasta strainer, which spit out flat fettuccine noodles onto the kitchen counter. I made ooh and ahh noises while watching. When all the dough was converted into noodles, he dumped them into a pot of boiling water. Then he began heating the sauce in a pan.

Even if it wasn’t the kind of dirty that I expected, it was still a lot of fun. Helping make the dinners I was eating made me feel slightly more useful, too.

“You said you own a shop? In Indiana?” Donovan asked.

“Yeah,” I said while cleaning the flour off my desk. “A clothing store.”

“What’s it called? Feisty Fabrics?”

I laughed and said, “Nellie’s Boutique.”

“Who’s Nellie?”

“My mom. She was the one that opened the store.”

He nodded along while stirring the pasta with a wooden spoon. “And you help her run it?”

How much should I tell him?

“I pretty much run it all by myself,” I said carefully. “Along with the manager I hired, Andrea.”

“Did your mom retire or something?”

I hesitated. Opening up wasn’t easy for me, even in the best of circumstances. My every instinct was to brush off the question and change the subject.

But I felt like I could trust Donovan. I wanted to open up to him.

“My mom… died last year. She and my dad both.”

He stopped stirring the pasta and turned to face me. Alarm and concern were painted on his face. “What happened?”

“There was a big ice storm last October,” I explained numbly. Like I was talking about something mundane, like the thickness of the pasta dough. “Roads were slicker than a hockey rink. Traffic on the interstate came to a stand-still, but a semi-truck didn’t realize it until too late. My parents were in the car in front of him, and…” I paused as my throat tightened. “They never saw it coming.”

“Oh, Molly,” he breathed. “I’m so sorry.”

“That’s the reason for this trip,” I said. “My girlfriends wanted to take me away for a week. Help me forget everything. The funny thing about it all? The pandemic has helped take my mind off of it. It’s the first thing that has distracted me since they died. How’s that for irony?”

And you, I thought to myself. You’ve helped distract me, Donovan.

He gazed at me like he wanted to do something. I’d seen that look a hundred times, whenever I told someone about my parents’ accident. Sadness and pity and regret all mixed together in his storm-cloud eyes. It reflected back onto me and made me want to cry all over again.

Then he walked to the divider, reached across my makeshift pasta desk, and pulled me into a hug.

It was the first time we had made any sort of contact. It was the kind of hug given with his entire body, like he wished he could hug my soul, too. After the shock of touching another person wore off, I relaxed and savored the way he felt. Chiseled arms and a hard, wide chest. Flour-coated fingers laced into my hair, holding my head against his shoulder.

It was the kind of hug that made a little piece of my soul untwist. Like a knot was being removed.

Finally he pulled away. He cleared his throat and said, “I know we’ve been trying to keep our distance because of the distancing rules, but I just thought… You needed that. I won’t do it again if you don’t want. I’m sorry about your parents.”

“I don’t want sympathy,” I said. “I just wanted to tell you. So you know.”

He gave me a sad smile. “I’m glad you did, Molly.”

Donovan strained the pasta and added it to the sauce. We carried our bowls out to our respective balconies to eat while watching the sunset. Neither of us talked for awhile—we just savored the comfort of each other’s presence. It felt the way it had when we watched TV together in the lobby, but on an entirely different level. More intimate, somehow, even though we were just making dinner.

“This is the best pasta I’ve ever made,” I said.

One of his dark eyebrows rose. “The best pasta you’ve ever made?”

“Yes, I’m taking full credit for it.”

“It would be better if I could make the sauce from scratch,” he muttered while stirring his food. “I hate using pre-made sauce in a jar. If I could get fresh ingredients…”

“I think it’s fantastic! The fresh pasta makes a huge difference, regardless of the sauce,” I said. “When you get back, you’ll get a job wherever you apply.”

“I don’t know…”

“Just make them this and they’ll hire you on the spot,” I insisted. “I’m certain of it.”

He smiled to himself while eating. If I didn’t know any better, my flippant compliment meant a lot to him.

“Want to go out?” Donovan asked as we finished up.

“Go out where? The front door is locked.”

He swept his hand at the hotel behind us. “We’ve got the entire Residencia Al Gladiatore at our disposal! Let’s get into some trouble. But I’ll warn you now: we might have to ignore a closed sign. If you can handle that.”

“You know what? I think I’m in the mood to live dangerously. What did you have in mind?”