“We can manage vegetables.”
“Prove it.” She sets a cutting board on the counter and hands me a knife. “Onions. Small pieces.”
I take the knife and the onion she offers, positioning myself at the counter beside her. The kitchen suddenly feels very small. Her shoulder is inches from my arm. I can feel the warmth radiating off her skin.
Focus. Chop the onion.
I slice it in half and start cutting.
“Smaller,” she says without looking up from the chicken she’s preparing.
“They’re fine.”
“They’re the size of my fist. Unless you want to choke on dinner, cut them smaller.”
“You’re very demanding for someone who’s supposed to be a guest.”
“You told me I couldn’t clean.” She flashes me a look. “You didn’t say anything about criticizing.”
I huff out something that’s almost a laugh and cut the onions smaller.
For a few minutes, we just work. It’s not uncomfortable. She moves around my kitchen like she belongs there, opening cabinets and finding what she needs withoutasking. I watch her from the corner of my eye, cataloging every detail.
The way she hums under her breath when she’s concentrating. The way she tucks a curl behind her ear when it falls in her face. The way her hips sway slightly as she reaches for the spice rack.
“You’re staring,” she says.
“I’m observing.”
“Same thing.”
“I’m making sure you don’t burn down my kitchen.”
She snorts. “That’s rich coming from the man who burned three batches of eggs.”
“I thought we moved past that.”
“We will never move past that. I’m going to bring it up at every opportunity.” She takes the cutting board from me and scrapes the onions into the hot pan. They sizzle on contact, filling the kitchen with a savory smell. “Okay, now the peppers. Same size. Small.”
“I know how to cut peppers.”
“Do you? Because those onions suggested otherwise.”
I grab a bell pepper and start slicing, making a point to cut the pieces smaller than necessary. She glances over, sees what I’m doing, and her lips twitch.
“Now you’re just being petty.”
“You said small.”
“I didn’t say microscopic.”
“Make up your mind, woman.”
The claim emerges. Woman. Like she’s mine. Like I have any right to call her that.
But she doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t correct me. Just shakes her head and turns back to the stove.
“How did you survive up here alone for years?” she asks.
