Total pages in book: 81
Estimated words: 76846 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 384(@200wpm)___ 307(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76846 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 384(@200wpm)___ 307(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
“A fork?” I said with a smile. “For what?”
“For sealing the edges of the ravioli,” he said, demonstrating by pressing the tines of the fork around all four edges of each ravioli. “Here. You got this,” he said, handing me the fork, then turning his attention to stir his sauce. He produced a loaf of Italian bread, then set to slicing it, filling it with butter, garlic, and herbs while I worked at sealing the ravioli.
Elian even let me lower the ravioli into the boiling water when they were done, and I moved to take my seat again, feeling like I’d finally had my first cooking lesson. Even if, objectively, Elian had done all the actual cooking. It still felt like an accomplishment.
“I can’t wait to try it,” I admitted, sipping my wine again as Elian tossed a quick salad, then set the table as we waited for the ravioli to finish.
Within another twenty minutes, we were sitting at the table with our food, and I was trying not to seem like I was rushing through my salad to get to the ravioli.
“Oh my God,” I groaned as I finally got a bite.
“Better than the omelet?” he asked, eyes warm as he watched me shove another ravioli into my mouth.
“I know it is good manners to talk during dinner,” I said. “But I need to focus on this food,” I said, getting an appreciative chuckle out of Elian as I continued eating until the waistband of my pants was cutting into my stomach.
“I’m going to need to start a more intense fitness routine if you cook like this too often,” I told him, sitting back against the chair to take more sips of my wine.
“Wait ‘till you try my lasagne,” he said, getting a little groan out of me.
“Are you committed to this career path of yours?” I asked. “Because I’d pay good money to have a live-in chef.”
“Don’t tempt me,” he said, his gaze slipping to my lips for a second before moving back up. Or was that wishful thinking?
“How about, since you cooked, I wash dishes?”
“That’s what a dishwasher is for,” he said, gathering the plates, and bringing them to the kitchen. “Do you want more wine with dessert? Or coffee?” he asked.
“Let’s go with coffee,” I said, not wanting to risk another glass, no matter how good it was. “You bake too?”
“Unfortunately, no,” he said, reaching into the fridge and producing two slices of cheesecake. “This is bakery-bought. Never could get the hang of baking. My ma used to say that cooking is an art, but baking is a science. Guess science isn’t my strong suit.”
The closest I come to baking is cutting up those pre-made log cookies with the little festive designs on them, and throwing them in the oven. It makes it feel at least a little bit like the holidays.
This past holiday season had been especially sad without my grandfather around to spend the time with. Sure, we ordered in meals, but at least we shared it with one another in my apartment with the pretty little tree I’d put up.
But without him, I almost didn’t even put the tree up at all. The only reason I did was because it felt too depressing not to. Though as I sat there looking at it while eating out of a Chinese food takeout container, I figured maybe it was better to just… pretend the holidays weren’t happening if you had no one to share them with. To eat meals with, to watch movies with, to exchange gifts with.
“Did I lose you?” Elian asked, placing a mug of coffee and a plate with the cheesecake on it in front of me.
“Just for a second,” I admitted.
“So what are your weekend plans?” he asked.
“Working,” I admitted as I sliced off a bit of the cheesecake. “There really aren’t any days off when you’re working on a campaign.”
“What happens after the election is over?”
“I’m out of a job until the next election cycle. Some politicians keep us on in a different capacity, but not usually senators. Most campaign managers majored in marketing and public relations. So after a campaign is over, we find steady jobs in those areas, or we freelance.”
“What are your plans?”
“Freelance. It’s honestly the same amount of work, or less, than I’m doing now, but I get to do it from home. And when you’re paying that much for an apartment, it’s nice to actually be there to enjoy it.”
“Why’d you take the campaign job then? Did you believe that much in Michael?”
“God no,” I said, then pressed my lips together at how bad that sounded. “No. Our politics don’t exactly align. And our morals even less so. But I think after my grandfather’s illness and passing, I’d been kind of paranoid about having really good benefits. As soon as mine kicked in, I had every test imaginable run.