There was flour everywhere – in his hair, on his nose, across his shirt. He was alternating between watching a video on his iPad and looking at the cookbook already smeared with food ingredients. There were two pots on fire.
“Are you alright?” I asked, “Do you need my help?”
He looked up, flashing me a smile, his eyes flickering the length of my body hungrily. I leaned on the kitchen door post suddenly feeling naked under his scrutiny.
“I was figuring out the best pasta sauce to make but seeing you here and in that shirt…” he trailed off, whistling. “The perfect answer just dropped.”
I blushed. “You don’t look like you’ve got anything figured out. Are you sure you don’t want my help? I don’t really mind.” I asked as he dropped another malformed piece of dough into a pot of boiling wate
