“Keeping you focused by being the Patrick Swayze to your Demi Moore. You did it at the creek. Now it’s my turn. Get kneading.”
Her surrounding me like this is gonna focus me all right.
On all the wrong things.
Bel slides her hands over mine, smearing them with goo, and then she guides them into the dough. It feels a little cold and a lot sticky.
Together, we do this smush-push-roll motion. As we break the egg yolks, streaks of bright yellow appear throughout the ball of dough we’re forming together.
Behind me, Annabel is breathing hard. The muscles in her forearms are really working now. But when I try to take over, Bel tightens her grip on my hands.
“My turn to lead.”
“Let me—”
“Let me.”
It’s a difficult thing, learning to follow. To let go. Especially when my gorgeous best friend is pressed up against me.
I don’t know how to do it. At first, I fight it, remaining stiff and awkward.
But she keeps at it, fingers laced through mine, body surrounding me. Not because she wants something, but because she wants me to know she’s there. Determined as ever.
After a few beats, I get tired of fighting. My mind is working against me and so is my body. It’s exhausting.
So I just kind of…surrender. What choice do I have? I time my breaths with Bel’s. I follow her movements, letting her work my hands while keeping my gaze on the dough. There’s something hypnotic about the way we work together and the warmth created by knowing I’m in capable hands.
The surrender is nicer than I thought it’d be. Dare I say it, I’m almost relaxed.
And just like that, the gnocchi comes together. A ball of dough that’s no longer sticky or streaked with yolk and flour, but evenly colored a rich, deep purple.
“Beautiful,” Chef Katie murmurs, rolling the ball between her hands. “Great job, y’all. I’m gonna divide it into two here using a bench scraper.” She holds up a flat, shovel-like blade, which she sinks into the middle of the ball. “Now each of you roll your section into a thin rope. About, say, as thick as your thumb.”
I roll and Bel rolls, her body rocking in time to her movements.
“This good?” She holds up her rope.
“A little too girthy,” Chef Katie replies.
Bel glances at me, and my gaze meets hers. The edges of her mouth twitch, and before I know what she’s doing, she’s taking her dough rope in her hands and slapping its flaccid end against my bare forearm.
“Feel too girthy to you?” she asks.
Chef Katie snickers. I’m glad Annabel and I aren’t the only pervs in this kitchen.
“Hmm,” I say, weighing the rope in my hand. “Depends on your preference, really. How big do you like it?”
“Big,” Chef Katie says.
“I’d settle for satisfying,” Bel adds.
“Then you should use mine as a model.” I drop Annabel’s rope and lift my own. “Note its perfect dimensions from root to tip.”
Gathering her bottom lip between her teeth, she dips her fingertips into a nearby bowl of flour and flicks them into my face. “Ew.”
“You mean yum.” I blink, licking the chalky flour off my lips. Annabel’s eyes move to my mouth. That electricity—the bonfire, the creek, the lawn—sparks, a sudden charge I feel in the base of my spine. “I thought you loved carbs?”
“Not yours.”
“Not nice.” I reach across her and dip my first finger in the flour. I smear it across her cheeks, my movements stealthy and sure. Laughter bubbles up inside my belly as her eyes go wide, and she gasps.
“You son of a bitch,” she breathes. Then she’s twirling her gnocchi rope like a lasso, her face in a mask of concentration. She lets it loose, and it slaps my arm, the tip breaking off and falling to the floor.
“Now look what you’ve done.” I bend down to grab the dough. “You cut off the most important part. You’re gonna have to pay for that.”
Annabel bounces her eyebrows, taking a step toward me. “Show me what ya got.”
Then I’m shoving the dough-rope-tip thing down her shirt, and she’s gasping again. She’s taking the whole bowl of flour and attempting to dump it over my head by standing on her tiptoes with one hand fisted in the front of my shirt to hold me in place—Lordy, I like that—and the other on the bottom of the bowl.
I blink at the snow shower that falls in front of my eyes.
“Aw, you’ve really done it now,” I say, grabbing the bowl from her. I loop an arm around her waist and hold her against me as she writhes, laughing. I tip the bowl upside-down over her head, Chef Katie squealing when the bowl lands on the floor with a hollow clatter.
“There may be snow on the chimney,” Bel wheezes, laughing so hard now she can barely breathe, “but there’s still fire in the furnace!”