“Where did you learn to cook Italian?” I asked helping Maxwell with prepping the salad while he was rolling out the pasta dough, scooping filling onto the dough and sealing it before cutting it into perfect squares.
“I am pretty sure the last time we had this conversation when I told you, my mom is responsible for teaching me all of these cuisine tricks,” Maxwell replied with a smile curving his lips.
“You are well-rounded at cooking, football and kissing, isn’t there anything you aren’t good at?” I queried.
“I am good at kissing?” He asked the ends of his lips twitching and widening into a full-blown smile with his eyes glimmering with humour.
I definitely stammered right into that one.
“You can’t handle my honesty?” I teased—instead of blushing at my own comment.
“Nah, I can
