Those big, capable hands…
“You know, if you slice the tomato this way, you’ll have minimal spilling of the seeds,” he says, reaching over and demonstrating how I should properly cut the tomatoes.
“But won’t I still end up with tomato slices by doing it this way?” I ask, my eyebrows arched in confusion. I realize there are different methods for cutting tomatoes, but this is the way we were taught in school for slim, perfect slices. I mean…it’s a tomato.
“Yes, but this way is better,” he replies boastfully.
“Your way?”
He gives me another of his full-wattage grins. “Exactly.”
Sighing, I shake my head and continue cutting the tomatoes my way, ignoring the look of exasperation he throws me. Instead, I cut the vine-ripe tomatoes into thin slices and set them aside, while Jasper rolls the dough out into two perfect circles.
“Will you grab the bowl of marinara?” he asks, nodding toward the glass bowl set between us.
“Is this homemade?” I ask, opening the lid and taking a whiff.
“It is. I’ve never used canned or jarred. That would be a travesty.”
“Lyn used jarred sauce the last time we made homemade pizza,” my traitor brother announces.
Jasper’s eyes widen comically. “How is this even possible? You went to culinary school.”
I shrug, sticking my fingertip into the tomato sauce and tasting. “I don’t know. I’m busy, but my preferred field was baking. I don’t really care about the cooking side, unless it’s making my own jam,” I reply, taking a second taste of the tangy sauce. Normally, I wouldn’t dare be licking my finger and sticking it back into whatever I’m making, but since this isn’t for the public, I decide to hell with it. Plus, there’s the prospect of annoying Jasper, which is always a plus. “This is good.”
He’s watching me, but if it bugs him that I’m swiping bites with my finger, he never complains. Instead, he seems to just observe me, the faintest hint of a smile on his lips. “Thank you,” he replies with a quick clearing of his throat. “I made a sweet onion jam for one of my burger creations.”
I lean forward, my hip resting against the island. “Really? Tell me more,” I inquire as he scoops sauce onto the crust.
Dustin groans. “Are you two gonna talk food now? I’m leaving,” he grumbles, spinning on his stool like he’s going to leave.
“Fine, we won’t geek out on food talk,” Jasper says, finishing up his pepperoni pizza with freshly grated mozzarella cheese. “But I will finish by saying, my onion jam would be delicious on some fresh soda bread or something.”
My eyes sparkle with possibilities. “Oh, I bet that would be fantastic. Maybe I’ll make a few loaves this weekend and you and the guys could try it out.”
“Or you could join us Sunday night here and bring it. My friends and I always get together before Christmas and do a dinner, hang out, you know?” He says the words casually, his eyes cast down at the pizza he’s prepping.
“Oh,” I stammer, unsure of what to say. My eyes glance up to my brother, who’s just smiling and watching.
Jasper finally glances up and meets my gaze. “No pressure. We don’t do gifts or anything. Well, except for Lizard. We’ll get her stuff, but otherwise, we just hang out and eat.” He looks across the counter to my brother. “You’re welcome to come too.”
I look down at the cut tomatoes. “I don’t want to impose if you and your friends just do your own thing,” I insist.
He sets the pepperoni pizza aside and begins constructing the margherita one. “You’re not. The others are bringing their girlfriends,” he replies before realizing what he said. “I’m not saying you’re my…you know.”
“Right, right,” I quickly claim. “That would be…yeah. No,” I stammer with an awkward chuckle.
“Right,” Jasper replies, a little too quickly. I mean, it’s not like we’re actually dating, and I did just insist that would be bad, but hearing him confirm it deflates that miniscule bubble of excitement that formed in my chest. “Just a few friends hanging out. If you and Dustin aren’t doing anything, you’re welcome to come by.”
I look over at my brother again, the eagerness in his eyes shining brightly. If it weren’t an open invitation to the both of us, I’d decline, but I can’t dismiss the excitement on my brother’s face. I want him to make friends, even if that person is Jasper. Sure, I might think he’s part devil, but he’s been nothing but cordial and accommodating to my brother. In fact, they seem to get along great when they talk. Even the other guys have been friendly and open with Dustin, which is probably why I find myself replying, “That sounds nice.”
Jasper smiles. It’s such a pretty smile, and if I’m not careful, I’ll end up swooning over that grin in a completely inappropriate way. “Great. I’m making prime rib, creamy ranch potatoes, and roasted asparagus.”
“What can we bring?” I ask as he finishes up the second pizza and places it the oven behind us.
“The bread is fine. This Saturday’s special is the burger requiring the jam, so I’ll make extra to bring home,” he says, closing the oven and turning back to me.
“I’ll bring some desserts too,” I insist, grabbing my bottle of water and taking a drink. If I’m going to subject myself to Jasper on a Sunday night, the occasion calls for some sweets. But then again, he’s not too bad tonight.
If you don’t count the tomato incident.
Jasper and Dustin dive right into more baseball talk, and before we know it, the oven timer is sounding. The aroma of freshly cooked pizza fills the air, causing my whole mouth to water in anticipation. I will admit—but only to myself—the real deal smells much better than the frozen ones we’ve been cooking at home.
“I know everyone recommends bamboo or silicone trivets, but I’ve discovered Enamel-covered cast iron ones actually work better at protecting the pan coating and what’s beneath it,” Jasper states, pulling two trivets from a drawer and placing them on the counter. “You should check them out.”
“I use cooling racks.”
“At home?”
Straightening up, I narrow my eyes a little. “No. I use hotpot holders. They’re just easier.”
He tsks.
Before he can argue why his line of thinking is right and mine is wrong, I grab the pizza cutter on the counter and start slicing. He doesn’t say a word, but I can feel his eyes on me, watching and probably grading my performance. I make sure to leave each triangle a different size, something I’d never do at home, but since I enjoy watching the veins in his temple pop out, the ugly inconsistent pieces leave me feeling gleeful.
“You did that on purpose,” he mutters, plating two slices of pepperoni and pushing them across the counter to my brother, who dives right in.
I shrug and give him a satisfied smirk. “Maybe.”
He blows out an exasperated breath and plates a slice for each of us. “Come on, troublemaker. Let’s get you fed so you can get home to sleep. I expect a white chocolate and cranberry muffin just for me in the morning.”