8. Chapter Eight

Chapter Eight

Josh

What the hell just happened? What was I thinking?

I wasn't thinking, that's the problem. I can't be expected to make any good decisions when I have my throbbing cock in my hand and my dream girl standing in front of me.

She just looked so sexy as the desire sparkled in her eyes. Then she took control, and I saw the Layla I knew years ago come to life. The one who didn't take shit from anybody, the one who knew what she wanted and went after it.

I was a goner after that.

What am I supposed to do now? I need to see where she stands. I know she enjoyed it, but I saw it in her eyes when it was all over, she panicked. She regretted it.

I fucking hate that. What went from the single hottest moment of my life turned into an awkward clean-up filled with uncertainty .

The door opens, and I feel my heartbeat accelerate. I turn around and watch Layla stroll in with some granola bars in her hand.

She looks at me hesitantly. "You want one?"

"Uh, sure. Thanks," I say as I grab one from her hand. "Look. About what happened."

"Can we just…not talk about it?" she asks quickly. "It was stupid. I don't think we need to make a big deal out of it."

Stupid? Don't make a big deal about it? I knew she wasn't going to react well, but hearing the words out of her mouth hurt.

"Yeah, sure. It was stupid. Got it. It's forgotten."

She straightens her back. "Thanks. Are you ready? We have to get going if want to make that cooking class."

"Yeah, sure." I grab my phone and wallet, then tuck them in my back pockets.

Thirty minutes later, we walk into the kitchen, where several stations are set up. People are laughing and talking all around us.

As I'm tying my apron on, I look over at Layla, who is ready with a big smile on her face.

"Tell me again why someone like you needs a cooking class?" I ask, struggling to get this damn thing tied behind me.

She watches me with fascination. "Turn around," she smirks then starts to tie my apron for me. "Because it's in Italy. It's also more of an advanced class about making pasta from scratch. "

I turn around quickly, almost knocking over the stack of bowls in front of me.

"Advanced? Layla, I don't know the first thing about cooking."

She smiles. "That's why you have me as a partner."

When the class starts, Layla tells me she wants me to start, and she will assist. I personally think she just wants to watch me screw everything up.

I'm instructed to measure eight hundred grams of flour.

"What the hell are grams?" I whisper to Layla.

She points to a scale in front of her. "America is actually one of the few places that measure ingredients in cups."

Somehow, I magically make it through measuring the flour with Layla's assistance.

"Now go ahead and form your well in the center of your flour for your eggs," the instructor says as if I'm supposed to know what she's talking about.

I glance over at Layla, who is moving the eggs next to me, and at the station next to us to see what they're doing.

"Seems simple enough," I mutter to myself as I move some of the flour to the sides to create a hole in the middle.

I start cracking my eggs into the center, one by one, until I'm on my final egg. Just as I crack it, the entire contents of my eggs start to flow over my flour walls and onto the counter.

"Eggs overboard, Layla. Eggs overboard! What do I do?" I shout in a moment of panic .

Layla reaches over me and starts to push flour around the sides as she snorts. "You just need to close the gap that was allowing the eggs to escape."

She is clearly getting a kick out of this. We both work to move the flour around and clean up the mess that I created. Once the panic subsides, I realize our arms and hands are touching as we work. Her scent surrounds me, and our earlier escapade is all that I can think about now.

She must notice the change in the air because she looks up at me, and her smile fades. She bites her bottom lip, and I think I let out a low growl.

Dammit. It's been ten years since I've had those lips on mine. Three thousand, six hundred, and fifty days. That's far too long. It's eating away at me to keep my distance.

"Now, you need to…ummm," she looks around and clears her throat, "you need to start slowly mixing the flour into your eggs until it starts to form a dough."

"Got it," I reply hesitantly.

"It looks like I need to start on the lemon sauce," she says as she glances around the room. "Just let me know if you need anything. I'll be right here."

I don't even remember the teacher telling us to do anything else besides add the eggs. I've been far too caught up in noticing every little breath Layla takes and what her hands feel like against mine. I want to take that hand and run it along my dick.

How am I this turned on when I just jacked off an hour ago and am currently kneading pasta dough ?

There is something seriously wrong with me that my dick is behaving like a teenager when he's around his crush. That's what it feels like with Layla. Every move she makes goes straight to my dick.

I watch her measure her lemon juice, her lips puckered to the side in concentration. She's so damn adorable and sexy at the same time.

"You gonna stop rolling and get out the pasta machine?"

I realize Layla is talking to me.

"Wait, what?" I ask, embarrassed that I was just so lost in watching her. "What pasta machine?"

She smiles at me. "That one, right there. Did you not hear anything she just said?"

"I was busy kneading this dough," I defend, hoping she doesn't call me out.

With the help of Layla, we manage to get our pasta run through the machine. It's actually really cool to see the final product and know it all started from eggs and flour.

"Damn, this is kinda fun," I admit as I add the pasta to the boiling water.

Layla looks at me skeptically. "Says the guy who's been whining almost the entire time."

"Hey, I don't want to screw this up. This is our lunch. I don't want you blaming me for a bad lunch because you brought the man who eats out all the time."

"Aw, you're worried about making me happy?" She puts her hand to her heart jokingly .

I drop the rest of the pasta in and turn to face her. "I always worry about your happiness, Layla. Maybe you don't see it, but I do."

Her smile falls from her face. I'm good at making that happen. She opens her mouth to say something but then shuts it. Looking around the room, she clears her throat.

"The pasta should only take about two minutes to cook. We need to keep an eye on it."

Right. Message received. Move on.

We both turn awkwardly to the pot as the moment passes us by. I let Layla take the lead and plate our food. She grates fresh pecorino cheese on top of our lemon sauce along with fresh chopped basil. Watching her work is like watching a painter making a masterpiece or a dancer in their element during their favorite number.

Every movement she makes is fluid. I can feel the love behind her work. She isn't just making food, she's creating something with her heart.

We are instructed to carry our plates outside, where a bottle of wine awaits our private table.

Our table is perched under a lemon tree with an impeccable view of the lake. It's wild how everything you see looks like a painting. There's so much beauty that your brain doesn't know how to process and take it all in.

Layla takes a seat across from me, and I realize nothing can compete with her. She's always stolen my focus wherever we go.

"What are you doing?" I ask after we get into our room after dinner. She's rummaging through her suitcase like she's looking desperately for something.

"I'm trying to find my sparkly top."

She pulls out some black glittery scrap of material.

"Why do you need that top?"

"Because…I thought I might go to a bar tonight. I kind of wanted to check out the nightlife here. Don't worry, you don't have to come."

I pop off the bed. "Like hell I'm letting you go out at night in that top in a foreign country."

"You can come. I just didn't want to pressure you. I'm gonna go put this top on."

She goes into the bathroom, and I open my bag to find a black shirt that fits my biceps a bit tighter than my other shirts. It has nothing to do with wanting to impress Layla. It's just a nice shirt, and I like to wear it. And while we're at it, the extra spray of cologne has nothing to do with her either.

She comes out in white shorts and her little top. Her hair seems fuller, and her eyes look darker. If she thinks she's picking up a random Italian man at this bar, she's delusional. I can't let her risk her life. For one thing, her brothers would kill me if I let that happen.

Plus, fuck that.

"You have a place in mind?" I ask as I open the door .

"There's a bar over in Como that is supposed to be where all the locals like to hang out. We need to take the water taxi to get there."

"You lead the way."

As soon as we step foot off the boat, I can hear live music. Layla leads me along the street until we turn the corner, and the bar appears before our eyes. It's actually kind of cool looking. The large openings in the brick walls allow you to sit at the tables outside on the cobblestone while still feeling like you're in the bar.

There are people dancing inside and all along the streets while lights hang above us.

"Oh my god! Isn't this the cutest?" she claps excitedly.

We walk up to the bar, and I motion to her that it's on me. "What do you want?"

"I'll take a glass of Chianti. Thanks."

All the wine has been incredible these past two days, but having a nice cold beer in this heat sounds pretty amazing, too.

I grab our drinks from the bartender and turn to Layla. "Where do you wanna sit?" I scream above the loud Italian music.

"Outside seems fun," she replies.

"Cheers," I say after I take a seat at the table she picked. "To learning how to make pasta. It will certainly come in handy on my next date night."

I wink at her, and she scoffs, which just makes me chuckle. I don't know why I like getting under her skin, but I do. If only she could admit that there is some kind of powerful attraction between the two of us.

I know I thought I regretted this morning, but come to find out, the only thing I regret is her reaction afterward.

"So, how is the finding yourself thing going?" I ask, wanting to understand more about the woman she has become.

I want to know everything there is to know about her. I want to be the one who knows her secrets, things she doesn't tell anybody.

"It's been…interesting. I definitely feel like I'm detaching from work."

"Interesting…that's a horrible answer. I'm completely failing you in helping you succeed. Tell me—what would the younger version of Layla be doing right now?"

She purses her lips as she considers my question. "I mean, I'm in Italy. I'm single. I would probably be taking some shots right now. Dancing with some handsome man who can't take his eyes off of me. I'd be wild and free."

Jealousy swarms in my gut at the thought of her dancing with another man. It makes me want to let her know that she doesn't need another man. I'm right here. "Does this morning not count as being wild and free?"

Her eyes go wide. "I can't believe you're bringing that up."

I smile over my beer. "What? I can't let you downplay that and act like it wasn't wild. Come to think of it, you were the one who initiated it, too."

She covers her face with her hands. "I don't know what I was thinking. "

"Were you thinking? I think you were just going with your gut."

"It was hard to listen to my brain when your thing," she says as she waves her hand at me, "was in my face. How weren't you more embarrassed?"

I shrug. "I have a nice thing. Plus, I saw the look in your eyes when you saw it. You liked it. Admit it."