When April straightened, she found Mr. Harrison standing next to her. “You’re taking the class?”

      “My nonna thinks it will help me.” He leaned down, got an apron and put it on over his head, covering the shirt and tie he wore. He wrapped the apron strings around him once and tied them together in the front. He looked natural with it on, and she found herself staring at him, her own apron still in her hand. He took it from her and slipped it on her, looking into her eyes as he secured the ties in front. “There. Now you look like a cook.”

      “Mr. Harrison—”

      “It’s Zach. And you’re April.”

      Page waved her hand between them. “And I’m Page. You’re the sports agent April has been talking about?”

      April instantly glared at her. She hadn’t been talking about him. Okay, so she’d mentioned him once or twice. And maybe she’d thought about him more than she should, but it wasn’t like she was obsessed with him. “I told her how you subdued Harley in the ER.”

      “And how she saw you when she went dancing. And again when she signed up for this class.” Page shrugged as April stared at her openmouthed. “What? Like it’s any big secret?”

      April gestured to Zach. “She makes it sound worse than it is. You’ll find she’s very good at that.”

      Mrs. Rossi came around and dropped a sifter on their table before tapping Zach’s cheek. “I’d hoped you would come.” She glanced at April. “But then I see you found a purpose to be here.”

      He glanced at April, then at his grandmother. “Thanks for that, Nonna.”

      Conversation stopped as they sifted together the all-purpose flour, semolina flour and salt into a large pile in front of the three of them. Zach used a fork to create a deep well in the center of the combined flours, and Page cracked open and added the eggs. Zach handed April the fork, and she started to mix the eggs together while Page put the olive oil into the mixture. When it came time to knead the dough, Zach rolled up his shirtsleeves and did it like an expert. “My nonna had me knead a lot of dough as a kid. I’ve got this part down pat.”

      April watched the muscles of his arms as he pushed the dough away, then pulled it toward him, mixing it and forming it into a ball. She admired how his fingers deftly massaged the dough. Why was she thinking about his hands and arms? She didn’t need Mr. Harrison...Zach to become a distraction for her. She was making her life better, and learning to cook was only the beginning.

      Zach wrapped the dough in clear plastic wrap so that it could rest for a half hour. Attention returned to Mrs. Rossi as she explained how to prepare a basic pesto sauce. When she called for volunteers, April glanced around the kitchen rather than making eye contact. There was no way she was going to go up to the front of the class and show how inept she was at this. “Why don’t we have April and Zach demonstrate what I’m talking about?”

      Rats. Page sniggered behind one hand, and she gave her friend a look. Page shrugged and nudged her toward the front of the kitchen. April followed Zach to where two mortars and pestles sat on the kitchen counter alongside some ingredients: a leafy herb, bulbs of garlic and some kind of seed or nut. Mrs. Rossi had Zach peel and press the garlic while she roughly chopped the herb that turned out to be basil. “You don’t want to shred it. Just chop it into smaller bunches to fit into the mortar and discard the stems.”

      Once they were done with that, Mrs. Rossi added some garlic and basil into each mortar, then had Zach and April pound the ingredients with the pestle. Mrs. Rossi tossed pine nuts into their mixture and had them keep pounding. Mrs. Rossi took the pestle from April and showed her a better technique to mix the ingredients into a paste. She wasn’t surprised the older woman had such developed arms with the workout she was getting.

      After the pounding, they spooned the paste into a bowl and included shredded Parmesan and olive oil to make a sauce. April leaned closer to the bowl and took an appreciative sniff. It smelled green and clean. Her tummy growled at the thought.

      Mrs. Rossi dismissed April and Zach and demonstrated how to roll out the pasta dough and cut it into shapes. Page nudged April. “You looked good up there.”

      “Like I knew what I was doing?”

      “Well, no. But you didn’t completely embarrass yourself.”

      Page dusted the table with semolina flour and unwrapped the ball of dough. She placed it on the table, and April picked up the rolling pin. She moved the pin back and forth, frowning as the dough stuck to the pin. “What am I doing wrong?”

      Zach put a hand on hers to stop her from tearing the dough. She almost dropped the rolling pin from the heat of his touch. “You want to move in several directions, not just back and forth. Let me show you.” He put his hands on hers and directed them forward right, then backward left. Forward. Backward right. Diagonals and straight lines. The dough thinned and became smooth, stretching out in front of them in an oval. He sprinkled some semolina on the rolling pin, and together they stretched the dough out even farther.

      Nonna stopped at their table and smiled. “This looks great. What pasta shape do you want to make?”

      “Ravioli,” Zach said. She patted his cheek and moved on to the next group. When Page and April looked at him, he shrugged. “I used to make them with her. It’s one of my favorite memories.” He handed April a knife. “You’ll want to cut the pasta in squares of equal size.”

      She looked at the beautiful yellow dough in front of them. It was almost too pretty to cut into anything, but she carefully placed the knife on one edge and drew it down to the other. Once they had the dough cut into neat squares, Zach retrieved ricotta and Romano cheeses, eggs and parsley. He gave the parsley to Page to chop while April shredded the Romano cheese. He measured the ingredients into a silver mixing bowl, then showed them how to put a tablespoon of the cheese mixture in the middle of one square then place a second over it, pinching the edges to seal it up tight.

      April stared at him. “I thought you couldn’t cook?”

      He leaned over one ravioli, pinching the edges. “Despite what my nonna believes, I do know how. I just don’t have the time to do it.” He placed the ravioli on the overflowing plate, then looked up at her. “Can you cook?”

      She shook her head. “I can microwave frozen meals and chop vegetables for a salad. I also pour a mean bowl of cereal.”

      He grinned and brushed the tip of her nose. “You had a little flour there.”

      She reached up to where he’d touched her. “Is it gone?”

      Page cleared her throat. “You’re fine. So, Chef Boyardee, what do we do next?”

      * * *

      ZACH REALIZED HE’D been gazing into April’s baby blue eyes for far too long. He glanced at her friend and gave a nod. “Right. Next step. We’ll boil the ravioli for about six or seven minutes. Then we drain them and toss in the pesto.”

      “Sounds easy enough.” Page took the plate up to the stoves where students had gathered to place their homemade pastas into the pots of boiling water.

      With her friend gone, Zach looked over at April. She wore a soft sweater in a shade of blue that complemented her fair skin and eyes. It looked as if she’d be soft to the touch. Soft, vulnerable. What was he doing? He shouldn’t be thinking about touching her. Yet, she seemed so approachable here in class. And that made her all the more appealing.

      April started to gather the dirty dishes and utensils. He followed her to the sink, where he helped rinse them and place them in the dishwasher. They didn’t say a word, but worked well as a team, then returned to their table. Nonna had left them clean plates and forks as well as a small mortar of pesto to try with their ravioli. “Your grandmother is amazing. I didn’t know people could cook like this.”

      “This is nothing. You should see her at the holidays.”

      He rested