He drops my hand to stretch his long arm around my shoulder to reach the door, opening it before I can. This also puts his mouth wonderfully close to my ear when he says, “If I wasn’t so wholesome, I would think you were about to suggest we have sex.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Madison
“I’ve been wondering how long it would take you to destroy my kitchen,” says James while hovering somewhere behind me.
“Hush it, you. I’m tired of your kitchen jokes. Especially when I’m about to blow your mind.” I point a clean spoon in his direction. “And no, I don’t mean sexually. Though I bet I’d blow your mind in that area too.”
He swiftly plucks the spoon from my hand. “Okayyy,what ingredients do I need to gather for this meal that will cure my smoking addiction?”
I lean my hip against the counter, balancing on one foot while the other perches against my left like a flamingo. “For legal reasons, I must officially state that this is not a cure for addiction. But unofficially, it is pretty damn comforting and you might crave it more than a cigarette.”
He smiles. “Said like someone who has clearly never smoked a day in her life.”
“I’ve smoked!”
“Weed doesn’t count.”
“Oh.” I go to the dreamy walk-in pantry and grab a loaf of bread. “Just for the record, what you’re doing right now . . .reallymakes me want to smoke. I don’t like knowing I haven’t tried something. Especially when I’m challenged.”
“Let me try a different approach then.” James twists so his lower back is against the counter now, crossing his arms and ankles. “Madison. My mom called, she says you have to smoke a cigarette tonight or you’ll be in trouble.”
“Reverse psychology?” I poke him in his big shoulder and he tracks my every move with amusement. “Don’t play mind games with me, James, or you’ll make me fall in love with you.”
The moment the words are out of my mouth, I regret them. I don’t even know why—they just seem to have more weight than I expected. Like picking up a paper bag you think is empty, only to find a gallon of milk inside.
“Can you get out the sugar and cinnamon?” I scurry away like a squirrel dodging a car to preheat the oven. Next, I lay a few pieces of white bread out on a plate.
James is back with the cinnamon and sugar containers and sets them near me on the counter. I spot a butter dish on the other side of the large island and lean over to reach it. My fingertips are just short of making it, but a second later James’s chest is pressing over my back as he gets the dish for me. His heat against my spine is warmer than tanning on the beach.
But he’s only there for a millisecond before he slides the dish closer and then returns to an upright position, stepping aside.
“Thank you,” I say, but it comes out like a stupid squeak.
Suddenly I’m having all kinds of fantasies that include me, James, and this countertop. I’ve known him my entire life, and I’ve never imagined sleeping with him. So why now? Is it because I’m celibate? Practicing a sexless lifestyle the last year has definitelyhad an effect on me. I thought it might dull my senses, but it’s only brightened them. The touch of a hand, brush of a shoulder, lingering eye contact—it’s all enough to work me up these days.
“Okay, so.” I rub my hands together like a maniacal scientist. “This is one of the first things I learned to make as a kid, and it’s been my go-to treat ever since.”
“Teach me, Chef.”
His words zing down my spine.
I force my attention on my knife, dipping it in the room-temperature butter and smearing it across each piece of bread. “With this dish, you are an artist. The bread is your canvas, and the butter is your paint.”
“That’s a lot of paint.” His eyes are glued to the bread.
“Crust to crust. Don’t leave a single dry spot.”
Next, in a little bowl, I combine the cinnamon and sugar until it’s the right ratio and then sprinkle it across the butter-slathered bread. Once they’re coated, I take each slice to the oven. “The trick is to lay them directly on the oven rack so they get toasty all over. And also because it’s like a fun game of Operation when you’re getting them out with your fingers. You have to try not to burn yourself on the rack.”
“I like a good challenge.”
A few minutes later our treats are finished and we’re hovering by the oven, each taking a huge bite. I watch James closely to see how he’ll react. He chews thoughtfully, jaws working and head nodding. He’s making the appropriate amount of moaning noises. But then, all at once, his mouth splits into a huge smile, followed by a laugh. The kind of laugh that is born of an inside joke.
“What?” I ask, mildly annoyed. “Is it gross or something?”
His laugh is a simmer that slowly builds into a full boil. He’s laughing so hard now he has to set his toast down.
