I rip open the bag of mozzarella cheese, sprinkling large handfuls over my marinara and rotini mixture in the casserole dish. “Sorry, I’m running so far behind,” I call out over my shoulder, setting the bag of cheese down and reaching for the parmesan. Flicking open the top, I sprinkle a hefty layer over the mozzarella just as the oven reaches temperature. “I know you’re probably starving, but it’ll be like forty-five minutes before the casserole is done.”
When I’m satisfied with the layers of cheese, I pull out the dolly to my drawers, letting each one fall open so I can reach for my spices. “My next house will have a spice cabinet, or maybe a spice shelf,” I say out loud to no one, reaching for the Italian seasoning, sprinkling it atop the pasta before setting it aside.
I crack open the oven door as far as it’ll go, leaning the door on the opposite cabinet just as Jim comes over to set a paper grocery bag on the island. With my face to the side to quell the sting of the heat radiating from the oven, I hold the dish out and to my opposite side to slide it into the oven. “I can make the salad now if you’re hungry. Or get started on the bread, what would you prefer?”
Jim’s quiet, so I turn to face him before I fully have the dish pushed onto the rack, and even though I’ve cooked in this pitiful miniature kitchen hundreds of times, I miscalculate how much space I have and the dish tips.
“Shhiiiit,” I hiss, moving quickly to grab the dish with both hands so our dinner doesn’t end up on the floor. My grip slips, and I nearly topple forward, my weight pulling me down as my knee clocks the oven door. I curse again, shoving the entire dish into the oven and reaching for the door to slam it shut, not realizing my opposite hand wasn’t quite out of reach, and it only takes a nanosecond for the red coils to sear my skin.
“Son of a bitch!” I screech, kicking the door shut with my foot. I grip my wrist with my opposite hand, hunching over to hold both of them between my legs to stifle the sting.
“What happened?” Jackson shouts from the living room as he pads over. Jim’s already reaching for my hand, wanting to assess, but I keep it tucked tightly between my thighs.
“Stupid stove got me, that’s all. It’s fine.” I turn away from them both, mumbling curses under my breath, lifting my hand to peek at the now red skin before cursing again.
Jim crosses around the opposite side of the island, turning the kitchen faucet to cold and ushering for me to come over.
“It’s fine,” I mutter, turning my back to him again to inspect my wrist.
He sighs, taking two steps forward to grip me by the elbows, pulling me in front of him and pressing his chest to my back. He walks me over to the sink, grasps my wrist with his hand, and coaxes it free from my grip. With the gentle care I’ve learned to expect from him, he briefly inspects the burn before sticking my hand under the stream of icy water.
It’s First Aid 101, and I know that. And if I wasn’t in such a piss poor mood, I probably would have done it myself. But sometimes it’s nice to feel that sting of pain. Reminds me that I’m still alive and that life is shit sometimes.
We stand in silence, the only sound the rushing water over my skin and his soft breaths landing on the back of my neck.
“I think it’s fine now,” I whisper, attempting to pull my wrist back.
He tightens his grip, forcing it to stay under the water. “It won’t hurt to give it extra care.”
I let my head hang down, the burning strain of a tendon stinging as I move it side to side, working to release some of the tension from my neck.
When he’s satisfied, he releases my wrist, but continues to stand close enough to ensure I keep it under the water. He then grabs a towel, methodically drying his hands before returning to his stance behind me, coiling both arms around my waist.
His chin rests on my shoulder, pulling my back flush against his chest, and with broad strokes he rubs both palms up and down my arms, across my belly, and down to the tops of my thighs. Each touch is the perfect amount of pressure, rivaling any deep tissue massage as he continues to soothe that sting of stress. Those broad hands run back up my stomach, over my breasts and across my chest, squeezing me in a way that isn’t the least bit sexual, yet somehow I feel every taught muscle in my body grow languid under his touch. I let my head fall back to rest on his shoulder with an exaggerated exhale.
“How do you do that?”
“Hmm?” His voice sounds against my cheek. “Do what?”
“How do you always know exactly what I need to feel better?”
His lips graze against the shell of my ear, hands continuing their rhythmic path along my skin. “Maybe I just know you.”
I release a small moan, letting my body sink into Jim a little further, eyes fluttering shut. My wrist left the water long ago, and both hands grip the side of the sink for balance as I let him hold up the rest of my weightless body.
“I picked up a bottle of wine for you,” he says. “I’m not sure what your favorite is, but I chose a nice red. Can I pour you a glass?”
Good Lord. His words may coax an orgasm from me on the spot. “Oh, sure,” I sigh lazily. I’d probably agree to just about anything he asked, as long as he kept working my body in a way that’s specific only to him.
He slowly releases his hold on me, a hand falling to my hip as the other leans forward to shut off the water. He lifts my wrist towards the light, inspecting the skin that has now gone from angry red to a bright pink. Once he’s satisfied I’ll survive, he wraps a towel around my wrist, pulling my opposite hand over to hold it in place.
Before he can pull away, I turn and nuzzle into his body, desperately wanting more from him. His arms immediately wrap around my back, cradling me against his firm chest. I bury my face in his neck, breathing in deep so his cologne can fill my lungs, and I adjust to peek over his shoulder, hoping Jackson’s focus is on his toys and not us.
Jackson’s attention moves from his Lego tower to our spot in the kitchen, and back. While he probably wouldn’t notice a quick peck on the cheek, I know once my lips hit Jim’s I wouldn’t be able to stop.
I pull back, gently patting dry my ice-cold hand, the sting of the burn nearly non-existent now. Jim releases me and begins unloading items from the grocery bag, pushing a baguette across the counter to me before moving to grab a wine glass from the cabinet by his head. “Here’s the bread you wanted.”
“Thanks.” I reach for the baguette, my eyes falling on the bottle of cabernet sitting on the counter. Abandoning the bread, I pick up the wine and study the label. Reading it twice to make sure I’m not losing my mind.
