“Oh-kay,” she draws out the word. She comes closer, bypassing me and going to my fridge. “Cute magnets,” she comments, tapping a few with the tip of her pointer finger. “Who gave these to you?”
“My mom. Or my sister. It’s kind of become a thing.”
Paisley pulls one from the fridge and examines it closer. “They were pets?”
“Every dog we had growing up is now represented in magnet form.”
She replaces the magnet. “That’s really sweet.” She removes the Corgi and holds it up. “Peanut?”
She remembers the name of my favorite pet, a name I mentioned once, briefly?
“The one and only.”
“You had a lot of dogs.”
“My mom had a thing for going to the pound and choosing the dog nobody else wanted.”
“That’s sweet, but it also sounds like you had to experience a dog passing away more than most people.”
“Once I understood how much we were doing by giving them love and care in the final months or years of their lives, the grief I felt when we lost them became more manageable.”
Moisture forms in the corners of Paisley’s eyes. “I don’t know if I could do something like that.”
Her emotion has me longing to reach out to her. I cross my arms to stop myself. Would that be well-received? “You could if you understood what you weregiving. You’d be surprised how much pain the heart can hold.”
“I’m no stranger to pain.”
Her voice is low, deep, almost gravely. Like me, she changes the subject before I can ask any follow-up questions. Stepping up to my fridge, she says, “I like to play this game with myself where I see what I have in my fridge and come up with something to make from the ingredients.” She looks up at me. “I hate wasting food.”
“What if all I have is,” I grab the door handle, and Paisley shuffles aside as I swing it open. “Ground beef and tricolor cauliflower florets?”
“Hmm,” Paisley taps her chin. “Do you have an onion?”
Pointing to a basket on the counter behind us, I nod in the affirmative.
She bends down to get a better look at my fridge. Do I take the opportunity to appreciate the curve of her backside, the dip of her lower back? Damn straight. “You have wine,” she smiles up at me, and her eyes narrow knowingly. “Everything’s better with wine.”
“Even tacos?”
“Tacos are magnificent on their own, but they are enhanced by a spicy red.” She pulls the ingredients from the fridge. “And yes, I caught you checking out my ass.”
“Would have been a crime not to.”
She laughs and shakes her backside at me. “I don’t blame you. It’s a nice ass.”
I chuckle and take the ingredients from her, moving around the kitchen to assemble cooking tools.
Paisley and I work side-by-side, cutting the cauliflowerinto small pieces and browning the ground beef. Paisley declares dicing the onion my job because it makes her cry. She looks through my pantry while I cut, coming away with a can of enchilada sauce. “Let’s throw this in there.”
By the time we’ve added chili pepper, cumin, salt, and pepper, my kitchen smells pretty damn good. I give it a taste, and lift my eyebrows in surprise.
Paisley grins. “I guess if it were terrible, you’d be frowning.”
“Taste,” I offer the wooden spoon, one hand cupped beneath to catch anything that falls.
Paisley leans in, lips parted and pressing against the tip of the spoon.
Lucky spoon.
