“French toast.”
I step up beside him. “Need any help?”
“You could slice some strawberries.”
“Point me in the right direction.”
“The fridge.”
Seeing the French toast, my eyes go wide. “You’re burning it.”
“Am not. I like ‘em crisp.”
I wrinkle my nose. “Crisp doesn’t mean black.” The stench of burning bread invades my nostrils.
His voice pitches high. “They’re burning!” He reaches for the handle to pull the skillet off the eye and then yelps, flicking his hand. “Hot!”
“Oh, no.” I jump into action and grab an oven mitt from off the counter. Sliding it over my hand, I remove the skillet and turn off the eye. Meanwhile, Axel is holding his burnt hand.
“Is everything okay?” Consuela calls.
Axel winces. “Yep, I’m okay. Just a flesh wound.” He tosses me a droll smile.
“Let’s run some cool water over it.” We go over to the sink. He holds his hand under the faucet as I turn it on.
He sighs. “That feels better.”
Turning off the water, I reach for a nearby kitchen towel and blot the wound dry. The skin on his index finger is red, but thankfully, there are no blisters.
“How could I be so stupid?” he laments.
“It happens,” I say practically. “Do you have any anti-bacterial ointment?”
He motions with his head. “In the cupboard.”
I go and retrieve it. “Let me put it on you.” Gingerly, I apply the ointment. Being this close—touching his skin—is intensely intimate. “Are you gonna be able to play the guitar?”
“I’ll be fine,” he says nonchalantly. “I’ve had worse.”
“Worse, huh?”
A boyish grin breaks over his rugged face. “Much worse.”
The moment slows. Memories from last night come rushing back as I look at his mouth. As if reading my thoughts, a low chuckle rumbles in his throat, sending his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down.
I jerk. “What?” Geez, talk about embarrassing. Why does he have to be so dang appealing? My own living, breathing kryptonite. I’m in trouble.
A wicked glint lights his eyes, turning them pristine blue. “Nothing.”
I shove his shoulder. “You should be thanking me for taking care of you instead of harassing me.” Bantering is so easy with him.
He laughs. “This isn’t harassing, but if that’s what you want.” He lunges forward and tousles my hair with his unhurt hand.
“Hey.” I try to dodge out of his reach, but he ruffles my hair even more.
“Stop,” I laugh, batting at him. When he lowers his hand, I smooth my hair. “Now you’ve done it,” I say primly. “My hair’s a wreck.” The way his eyes pop lets me know he thinks I’m serious. This is too good not to milk. I put on my best pout.
“Sorry,” he says sheepishly.
