Boys Are Liars

Chapter 8

My nose nestled between bright flowers that grew in the middle of a charming Italian Village. I smiled, my hands pressing down the fabric of my long white skirt. Nolan was standing behind me, a cigar hanging off his lip.

I pull my phone out, taking a picture of the garden. Nolan laughs slipping his arm around me.

"Are you going to take a picture of everything here? You're making us look like tourists," he says.

"How can you even ask that?!" I teased. "Of course, I'm going to take pictures! How else am I going to remember this moment? I've never been and I don't know when I'll get an opportunity like this again!" I say, backing away from him and snapping a quick photo.

He wince when the flash glares in his face. Nolan grabs my phone putting it into his pocket.

"Hey!" I say, reaching behind him. "Give me back my phone!" I shout.

"I will, later tonight," he says. "Stay in the moment. You're in another country and you've been on your phone the entire time,"

"That is not true," I countered.

He raises an eyebrow at me. "Isn't it?"

I scowled, rolling my eyes at him. "So? Everyone is always on their phones. Not everyone gets to fly off to another country just for fun. I want to remember everything and if taking a dozen photos does that for me so what?" I say.

He titles his head. "You roll your eyes a lot," he says.

"Well you're annoying," I answered. "Can't you let me do my thing and you do yours?"

He reaches behind his pocket and slowly gives me back my phone. He cups his lips around his cigar, drawing the contents then blowing a perfect ring of smoke from his lips.

"Sorry Abara, I'm just not a big technology fan. It affects the way we connect with each other. Even if you lose the memories of this trip you can never forget how it made you feel," he says.

"Are you ever going to call me by my first name?" I say.

He shrugs, grinning. "Probably not,"

I sighed, shoving my phone into my purse. "I guess you're right,"

"Of course, I'm right," he says, wrapping his arm around me and pulling me close as he kisses me on the ear.

I wipe the mark he leaves on my skin, sticking my tongue out at him. "You kiss me a lot for someone who's just going out with me," I say, eyeing him.

"You didn't seem to mind that night," he says, his voice deep and throaty.

My lips pressed into a thin line as I tried to hold back my grin. He held me in an intense gaze, his brows arched.

"I'm just trying to figure out what this is," I say.

He smiles at me, taking a piece of my hair and twisting it between his fingers before putting it behind my ear. He rubs his thumb against my lower lip and I suck in a breath as my heart quivers.

We walked down a pebbled covered road, hand in hand. The sides of the roads were covered with luscious green vineyards. My mouth waters when the smell of roasted chicken and garlic hits my nose. Nolan's hand lowers to my waist as he leads me to a kitchen hidden behind a rustic home.

I spin around to face him, squealing. "Is this what I think it is?!" I say.

His eyes twinkle when he sees how happy I am and he pulls my head towards him to kiss me on my forehead.

He nods. "If you guessed a private pasta cooking class for just the two of us then you are correct," he says.

I shrieked again, jumping up and down so that I didn't notice the middle aged man that was standing behind us. He cleared his throat, smiling at me when I turned around.

He wears a white hat, white pants, and a double breasted jacket.

"Welcome Mr. Burns, it's good to see you again!" He says. He turns to me and smirks. "And who is this young lady?"

"Sariah Abara," I say.

He puts the back of his hand to his face and winks at Nolan. "She's very beautiful. I'm not surprised, you've always had good taste in wine and women," he says.

My stomach flips and I blush, looking away from him, as a nervous laugh escapes my lips. He claps his hands together extending his hands towards us and I shake his hand, giving him a firm grip. Another chef appears and hands Nolan and me white aprons.

We tie the aprons around our waists and necks as we are led to a wooden table scattered with tomatoes, olive oil, flour, eggs, and salt. Our chef stands on the opposite side of the table separating the ingredients for us.

"Today you will be making vodka pasta with Chef Monaco," he booms. He grabs a large sliver bowl and Nolan and I mimic his movements. "First you will combine the flour and salt into the bowl,"

I want to ask him about how much we pour since he didn't give us exact measurements but he has already moved on to the next step and is already cracking his eggs into the space he made in the middle of his flour mound. Nolan is just as quick and my heart beats as I rush to catch up with them, pouring the contents of my bowl to the table.

"Good!" Chef Monaco says as he is elbow deep in his cream colored dough.

I leaned towards Nolan, my lips brushed the edge of his jaw. "So you take girls out here to Italy for cooking lessons often? And here I thought I was special," I teased.

He smiles at me, grasping my neck with his hand. "Once or twice," he answers.

His fingerprints are covered in flour and the soft smooth powdery substance sticks to my skin. I stepped towards him, grabbing his shirt.

"Then I guess you're going to have to step up your game," I say, my lips inches from his face. He leans down to kiss me but I pull away at the last second, his lips hitting the side of my head.

He grins, laughing. "So it's going to be like that huh?"

"Yeah, it is," I say, pressing the heels of my hands into the dough. I stretched and folded it over, repeating the process until mine was as soft and smooth as Nolan's and Chef's Monaco's.

"Good kneading!" Chef Monaco tells me. "I like her a lot. Glad you finally got over the other one. She complained too much! Wouldn't get her hands dirty!"

I turn to face Nolan raising an eyebrow at him. He just smirks at me and shrugs.

Chef Monaco pushes an empty wine bottle into my hand. My eyebrows knitted together, cinching a crinkle on my forehead. I notice Nolan grinning at me.

"You're so cute when you're confused," he says, pulling at the cork and popping his wine bottle open.

"Are we taking a break?" I asked.

"Drink some wine! Then we're going to use the bottles to roll out the dough," Chef Monaco answers.

I bite my lip and Nolan takes my bottle from me, opening it and then putting the glass to my lips.

"Drink," Nolan says holding my gaze.

I nod, tipping my head back and letting the sweet dark bitter taste of cherries stain my tongue and trickle down my throat. When I'm finished a bit of it drips down my chin and Nolan leans towards me to lick it off my skin. I wheezed, pulling away from him, and put my hand to my face to hide my smile.

As we thin our dough and cut it into flimsy strands with our pasta wheels, I keep sneaking glances at Nolan who is deep in conversation with Monaco. They talk about the history of the dish and the best places to visit in Italy. I am too vaguely aware of the way his muscles are curved and ripped, glistening with sweat.

He smells of earthy spices and wood. I had no idea how I got here. It felt like something out of a dream. Nolan meets my gaze and he stops cutting his dough to put his hand on top of mine.