“That is…a lot,” Tarron commented.
“You can never have too much butter. Writethatdown if you like; it’s perhaps the most important rule.”
The pan sizzled and popped as she added her diced vegetables, and the air soon filled with the scent of onions and peppers. She tossed in a myriad of spices she found, humming to herself again, completely focused on her sautéing ingredients, determined to get their texture just right.
When she finally looked up, Tarron was frowning.
“What is it?”
“You didn’t measure those spices,” he accused.
“I did.”
He glanced at the still-perfectly-clean measuring spoons.
“I measured it all with my heart.”
His eyes narrowed.
She stifled another laugh.
He canted his head. “Ah. You were telling a joke.”
“I was.” She looked away—hopefully before the blush she felt in her cheeks grew too noticeable.
Why was she joking around with him like this?
She cleared her throat. “I get the impression that you like it when things are neat and organized.”
He didn’t object.
“But cooking is an art, not a science. And sometimes art is messy.” She wiped at a bit of sweat on her brow, realizing too late that there was still a glob of that buttery substance on her hand.
He seemed to be considering her statement carefully. His eyes lingered for a moment on the streak of butter she’d left on her forehead, and then he took a towel and wiped away thatmessjust as carefully.
She felt a bit lightheaded at his touch. She quickly searched the kitchen for her next task.“We’ll add the eggs in a few minutes, but while those vegetables finishing cooking, I’ll make a berry sauce for our toast. And we’ll need to light another burner, get some water boiling for tea…”
“I can manage to boil water, I think.”
“Let’s see it, then,” she said with an amused smirk.
He left her and went to another stovetop.
Her lightheadedness remained—maybe it was the heat and her lack of food, not his touch—but she persevered, and went about her sauce-making.
A few minutes later and she was nearly finished, and looking forward to finally eating something that was safe and of her own making. Her eyes nearly welled with happy tears at the thought.
But then she heard: “Why is it smoking so much?”
She turned just as flames sprouted from underneath the tea kettle.
“Oh…okay, gods, there’s not supposed to be that much fire, here, move—” She snatched up a pot lid. Raced over to Tarron, knocked the kettle aside, and then attempted to smother the flames with the lid. “There must have been oil residue or something on the—”
“I’m going to summon somebody to deal with this,” he insisted, his tone more annoyed than frantic even as several larger flames licked their way out from underneath the pot lid.
“No, I’ve got it under control!”
“Doyou?”
