I find her standing at the counter, one sneaker kicked off, an apron hanging crooked from her neck, tasting sauce from a wooden spoon like it’s the most serious work she’s done all day.
Her brow is furrowed in concentration, bottom lip tucked between her teeth. A smear of tomato across the back of her hand.
She looks cute.
Ugh, I hate that word. It’s not useful. Doesn’t say anything tactical. But it’s the only word I have when I look at her right now.
Cute.
I should walk away.
Instead, I lean in the doorway like I’m not thinking about her mouth. Like I’m not remembering how that mouth felt on mine.
“Need a second opinion?”
She startles slightly, then turns. “You? I thought you only tasted things when they were perfectly plated and photographed.”
“Funny,” I deadpan, pushing off the doorframe. “Let me guess. Garlic base?”
“Yes.” She narrows her eyes, pointing her spoon at me. “But don’t say ‘too much garlic,’ because there is no such thing.”
I swipe a clean spoon from the rack, dip it into the pot, and taste.
I let it sit. Just long enough to be annoying.
“Too much garlic,” I say.
She gasps. “You take that back.”
“Josie, this sauce is one vampire away from an exorcism.”
“You are garlic blind. That’s a medical condition.”
“It’s overpowering.”
“It’s layered,” she argues, hands on hips. “It’s assertive.”
“It’s aggressive.”
“Oh, come on, it’s not a pit bull, it’s a sauce.”
And before I can volley back, she grabs a dish towel and flings it at my head with terrible aim and zero regret.
I catch it easily.
Our eyes lock.
The moment hangs there, charged and bright. Like static before a lightning strike.
She’s still smiling, but it’s softer now. Slower.
“Thanks,” she says, nodding toward the towel.
I don’t hand it back. I hold it. Between us. Stupid, crumpled proof of something that’s a lot like flirtation.
“You ever think maybe this is a bad idea?” I ask quietly.
She tilts her head. “What part?”
