16. Marvelous Giu

16

Marvelous Giu

Zane

I hope I didn’t cross a line just now, lying about us being together, but I hate that Ivy has to suffer through this over and over again. She doesn’t deserve the pain that jackass inflicted on her. I want to smash in his stupid face with a snow shovel for hurting her this way.

Jude and Lina are telling us about their wedding planned for next year when a tall, dark-haired guy with a curled mustache enters the small waiting room. He’s wearing a chef uniform and a white hat. “ Buongiorno a tutti . Welcome to the everyday cooking class,” he booms in a louder voice than necessary before flashing his pearly whites.

A collective “hello” follows from the women and Marius. The British dude, Jude, just looks at him, and I hold back a groan. This chef looks way too cheerful for my liking.

“I am Chef Giuseppe, but you can call me Giu. First, let’s start by calling the roll. Like at school, no?” he chuckles. “Allora , I have Hollywood stars Marius and Jo from LA.”

Everyone but Jude and me chuckle at his quip. How long is this cooking class again?

“That’s us,” Jo says with a smile.

“Perfetto . Next, Lina and Jude, the British royals.”

Lina raises her hand while Jude rolls his eyes.

“And finally, our honeymoon couple from Florida, Ivy and Dan. Congratulations.”

“Actually,” I cut in, “it’s Ivy and Zane.”

“Oh, dio mio . Sorry about that; probably a mistake. It happens with the phone bookings because of the spotty connection. Unless the lady changed husbands already,” he adds, making everyone laugh.

Ivy forces a smile .

“Right. Allora , follow me to the kitchen, and we can make the magic happen.”

We all file into a large kitchen with white-tiled walls and long, stainless-steel kitchen counters. Atop the cooking surface are various utensils and ingredients, forming three separate stations.

Giu hands each of us an apron and a hat, which I refuse to put on. I’m not the only one, though. Jude refuses the hat too. I’m starting to like this dude.

We take our positions behind the counters. Ivy and I are next to the Californian couple, and the British pair is across from us.

Giuseppe clasps his hands together. “We are going to make l’ulitmo piatto from the Italian cuisine, la pasta .” He gestures way too widely, and I’m starting to wonder if this is some kind of joke. I mean, who is this guy? I’ve never seen him around here before.

“Oh, I love pasta,” Jo says.

“We will make, more specifically, ravioli from scratch. Con ricotta and spinach. First, we need to prepare the dough. Then, we will create the garnish and cook the sauce.” He then starts rambling really fast in Italian, and we’re all completely lost, though I’m pretty sure he’s just talking to himself as he gathers ingredients from the cold storage room .

Ivy glances up, clearly struggling not to break into a laugh. At least it’s not just me.

I pinch my fingers together, mimicking the famous Italian hand gesture, and Ivy buries her face in my arm to muffle her laughter. I can’t hold back my goofy grin.

Giuseppe strides back out and first instructs Ivy on how to prepare the dough for the pasta. It’s actually pretty easy. You only need flour, eggs, and salt. We layer some flour on the counter, then crack a few eggs and a pinch of salt on top before mixing it all together.

And just when I thought I was getting the hang of it, the process quickly becomes more complicated.

“Um.” Ivy frowns, looking at me. “Am I doing this right?”

Her hands are full of gooey dough. It doesn’t look even close to the finished product, which is a firm, smooth dough. I glance at our neighbors, and they’re all in better shape than us. The Brits almost have their dough finished.

“I think we just have to knead it with a little more muscle.”

“ Siiii ,” Giuseppe exclaims, appearing next to me. “You have to knead harder. Like this.”

He places his hands on top of Ivy’s, helping her knead the dough with a firmer touch. Blood pulses in my veins, and I suddenly want to slice his hands with that large knife on the counter.

Fortunately, the dough almost instantly starts to take shape. “But you take my place, Husband,” he says, probably seeing the flames in my eyes.

Gladly.

He steps aside, and I stand behind Ivy, placing my hands on hers trying not to collide with her body, but it’s not an easy task. I barely have time to adjust to her touch and the tormenting smell of her hair when Giuseppe shouts again. “Now, knead. Come on! You have big muscles. Use them.”

A low growl escapes me, and Ivy shivers. It’s subtle, and if I wasn’t this close to her, I wouldn’t have even noticed. Probably the effect of Giuseppe’s annoying pitch.

We start kneading the dough with more pressure, which is a lot harder than it sounds. I don’t have that much of a grip. For one, I’m standing a good three inches behind Ivy so that I don’t accidentally hug her from behind and make this situation even more uncomfortable than it already is. Second, I’m literally afraid to break Ivy’s delicate fingers in the process. Giuseppe is right. I do have big muscles, but I don’t always measure my strength. Roughing around with fifty-pound dogs every day doesn’t help.

“Get in there,” Giuseppe bellows. Why is he still here? “Make love to the dough,” he adds. “And to your woman. ”

I glance up at him, and he just winks. Is this guy for real? Seriously, where are the hidden cameras?

I close the gap between Ivy and me. “Is this okay?” I whisper in her ear. Goosebumps erupt along her collarbone as she nods.

“Tell me if I’m hurting you,” I breathe as I start to knead harder.

“ Si . There you go. It’s working.” Giuseppe clasps his hands, watching the dough forming beneath our palms.

We keep at it, and I’m finally getting more comfortable with the situation, enjoying the warmth radiating from her body. Suddenly, images flash through my mind before I can stop them. Ivy and me, cooking at home, her hugging me tight. Ivy sitting on my lap, throwing her head back as she laughs at a stupid joke I made.

“Okay! Done,” Giuseppe exclaims, pulling me out of my trance. Could this guy be any more annoying?

I take a wide step back, almost knocking out the shelf behind me in the process. Thankfully, no one notices as I quietly right myself and take my spot next to Ivy.

When she glances at me, her cheeks are even more flushed than after a long ski run. Her chest heaves up and down, and my stomach twists. Did I make her uncomfortable? That’s the last thing I wanted. When I pretended we were a couple, it was for the opposite reason. And now, I worry I messed everything up.