Talking softly, he says, “Okay, hold the grater with this hand, and then move the potato up and down over those ridges, like this.” He demonstrates and I nod, the whole time wishing we would stay in this position the whole night or at least a version of it. “Yeah, just like that. Good job, Dottie. You continue to shave down the potatoes while I measure out the rest of the ingredients.”
He pulls away and I instantly feel like messing up so he can return to his previous position, arms wrapped around me, his scent filling the air around us. But I also don’t want to look completely incompetent, so I continue to shred.
“Who taught you how to cook this meal?”
“My grandpa. He was the chef in the house. Owned his own restaurant for quite some time. He would always tell me the best way to a woman’s heart was knowing your way around the kitchen. We would spend hours cooking together. When I wasn’t training.”
“That’s sweet. So is this one of his famous recipes?”
“Yeah, he was known for his pasta, which was funny since he’s not Italian. He’s Irish. Ireland gets a bad reputation for not having the best food. One of my grandpa’s favorite things to say was he was an Irishman who knew how to cook better pasta than his Italian friends.”
“I’m sure that chapped their asses.”
He pauses, mid scoop with his flour. “Chapped their asses?” A low rumble of a laugh rolls through his chest, the sound positively delicious. “I’ve never heard that phrase before.”
“Seriously? My dad says it all the time. He always asked me if I intended on chapping his ass whenever I did something wrong.”
“Did you ever offer him up ChapStick? I could totally see you doing that, the smart-ass in you.”
“Not ChapStick,” I answer. “But petroleum jelly. I gave it to him the Christmas of my senior year in high school with a card that said, for all the times I chapped your ass.”
“Oh, that’s fucking perfect.” Jason laughs some more. “Please tell me he loved it.”
“I think it was the hardest I ever saw him laugh. Then he cried, of course, because I was going off to college. I assured him I’d still be able to chap his ass long distance . . . and I did.”
“Oh, I’m sure you did.”
I move on to the next potato, picking up my pace. “What about you, are you close with your parents?”
“Yup, my whole family actually. Natalie is my sister, she helps me run my foundation, The Lineup. She’s actually the CEO, and I’m just the pretty face.” He flashes me his best smile. Pretty face indeed. “And of course, Joseph, my twin brother who has cerebral palsy, is my best friend. We’re really tight-knit, and I think it all stems from wanting to give Joseph the best life possible. Natalie and I became super protective of him and my parents encouraged it.”
“That’s really amazing. I admire that. Other people could have been resentful about having to take care of a sibling their whole life, catering to their daily activities, but you weren’t. You embraced it.”
Jason shrugs. “He’s my brother. We shared a womb together. I would do anything for him.”
He sets the measured-out ingredients to the side and props his hip on the counter, facing me.
“Can I tell you something?”
“Of course.”
“You know how you said I was a sob baby?”
“Yes, how you cry about everything.”
“Yup.” He chuckles. “Well, the last time I full-on bawled was when I finally realized that Joseph would be able to go to all my games again. Well, at least all my home games. In my contract, I made a stipulation that he would have a permanent handicap seat dedicated to him and his guest so no matter what, he always had a seat at my game. When they said yes to it and made it happen, I lost it.”
I finish up the last potato and then turn to Jason. Talk about one of the biggest hearts I’ve ever seen, ever met. Jason is the winner. He has a heart you don’t see very often, one that’s genuine, positive, and so addicting that all you want to do is be surrounded by it.
And I not only want to be surrounded by his heart and his personality, I want to be consumed by it, and quite frankly? That fucking terrifies me. I feel this pull within me, warning me about getting too close, not to trust his pretty façade, not to fall for possible hypocrisy. To deny my want. But then I consider how he stepped back when he believed he’d pushed me too far. How he squeezed himself into my life despite my often-bitchy charade, content to be my friend. Because what man does that voluntarily? It’s not him that has a hidden agenda, although I know without a doubt now that it’s not the stupid deal that’s driving my actions. My heart. After being very anti-relationship, very cynical that men had something I wanted, my heart is being lured in. Jason Orson is hypnotic. And I’m not sure I can deny that for myself. I want him to know how incredible I believe he is.
I reach out and take his hand in mine. Staring into his eyes, I say with full conviction and not an ounce of sarcasm, “You are one of the best men I know.”
“Thank you.” He smiles sheepishly. “Uh, we kind of got off course. Want to continue with this gnocchi?”
“Of course.” I pull my hand away and face the counter. Jason moves the ingredients closer and then stands behind me again, his chest to my back, his arms wrapped around me, his head next to mine.
Talking softly he says, “Okay, we’re going to mix all these ingredients together with our hands.” He takes mine in his and starts pouring the ingredients together directly onto the countertop. His lips practically kissing my ear, he continues, “Now we don’t want to overmix, just enough, and then we form a hole, a little nest for our egg.”
“Like this?” I ask, forming a “nest” like he said.
“Perfect,” he answers, his breath sending goosebumps down my body. “Mix it all together until it’s a dough-like consistency.” Together, we mix, and mix, and mix. Clumps form on our fingers, then fall off in disgusting chunks, but I’m comforted from the closeness of Jason and the way he seems to not back away but rather keeps his body as close to mine as possible. “Clumping is the worst,” he says, pulling at the dough clumps on my fingers. “But look, see how it’s forming a good consistency?” He picks up a pinch of flour and dusts the countertop, making it less sticky.
Once the dough is formed, he says, “Here comes the fun part. We have to roll it out and cut it up.”
He slides his dough-covered fingers up my forearms and spreads them out with a slight suggestion. He picks up a piece of dough and starts rolling it on the counter. Once it resembles a snake, he takes my hands and I roll with him.
“Isn’t this fun?”
I turn to look at him, his body covering mine, his head inches from mine. “It’s a lot of fun.” Before I turn back to the gnocchi, I give myself a second to stare at him, to hopefully portray in my eyes how quickly he makes my heart beat, how with one flash of his grin, he lights me up inside.
I swipe my lips with my tongue and he watches, so I do it again, but slower this time, just letting the tip of my tongue peek out. His eyes follow, darkening, narrowing.
From behind, I can feel his chest grow tighter, thicker with his breath.