His mouth broke into a full grin. Hewatched me for a few, long seconds as he debated something internally. “Itdoesn’t matter. The shortbread recipe isn’t mine. I can’t give it to you.”
I would have been surprised had itbeen his. He wasn’t known for his desserts after all. “I didn’t want itanyway.”
“But you do want my help with the sauce.”
“I don’t.”
He reached past me, brushing mywaist with his hand, uncaring that I was standing between him and the stove.“If you’ll just…” Unable to reach a clean spoon, he gripped my hip with twohands and physically moved me to the side.
“What the—”
Outraged I watched him try the sauceand then tap his nose with the tip of the spoon. He stood there in thoughtbefore grabbing a meatball out of the cooler and biting into it. He got adifferent spoon and tasted the gravy again before finishing the meatball.
He slammed around my kitchen,rifling through shelves and opening metal cabinets. Finally, he moved to thecooler and pulled out fresh mint.
I bought it for the tzatziki sauce. I’dcontemplated putting it into the meatballs, but I hadn’t. I didn’t want thatparticular flavor to be overwhelming.
Killian moved back to the counterand pulled down a clean cutting board. Then he helped himself to my knives.
My hands clenched into fists. “Whatare you doing?”
He glanced at me over his shoulder.“Oh, do you mind if I just…” He gestured at the cutting board with the knifealready in his hand.
“I—wha-”
He turned back to the mint andstarted chopping it into minuscule pieces. “This is a nice knife.” He read thebrand and went back to work. “At least you know how to take care of your tools.”
“What a dick thing to say.”
His shoulders shook with a silentlaugh. “I just gave you a compliment.”
“You gave me a backhandedcompliment. And you know it.”
He moved the mint to the white sauceand added dill. Then he went back to the cooler and pulled out a lemon. “Takethe compliment, chef, and stop assuming that everything I say is an insult.”
He called me chef.
Hecalled me chef!
My ego perked up at the unexpected accoladeand I tried to remember all the horrible things he’d done to me in the shorttime I knew him.
“You’re making it too much like thetzatziki,” I complained.
He shook his head, his lips quirkingup in a private smile. “Have a little faith.” He then grabbed the red pepper flakesand tossed in a generous amount.
He stood over the pan and stirredwhile I watched him. Neither of us said anything for a long time. I couldn’tguess the thoughts in his head, but I was trying to come to terms with howcomfortable he looked inmykitchen.
He should have been too big for thesmall interior. But he hunched his broad shoulders when he worked, curling hislong torso over his food protectively… thoughtfully. His muscles rolled withevery small movement, every stir of his whisk or lift of a new spoon to tastehis progress.
His ego should have made him seempretentious and out of place in my humble space. But he moved around with anatural ease that was at once alluring and intimidating. He guessed wherethings were, but most of the time he was right. He mastered my knives like he’dused them all his life. And he worked the sauce like it was his original recipe.
He was too good for my kitchen andyet he didn’t act like it. No matter what we’d said to each other leading up tonow, he was being nice.
Even friendly.
And it was weirding me out.
Panic twisted in my gut, warning methat this was dangerous.Hewasdangerous. “What do you want, Killian?”
