11
IRIS
Garrik’s kitchen smells like citrus and spice and something faintly floral…probably whatever he picked up at the Fablegrove Market, tucked now into bowls and baskets the crowd the counter. They’re taking his entire attention right now as he chops up herbs and vegetables, focused on our meal.
And if I’m being honest…I’m a little jealous.
I want his attention.
Now.
He’s got the sleeves of his shirt rolled up, strong forearms dusted with flour as he rolls out dough on the counter. His antennae twitch with focus, a light shade of purple at their tips, so focused that he doesn’t notice me staring over the top of my book like a complete and utter creep.
At least I’m pretending to read. That counts for something, right?
The family tried to intrude on our evening again, but Garrik insisted on cooking me dinner when we got back from the market—which resulted in him parking me in an oversized armchair with one of the romance novels I bought at the Bloom & Quill. Garrik has been busy ever since, ignoring me.
And yes…I should be entertained. The book is one of the spicy ones, currently open to a passage that involves rope and a very generous alien prince. I should be drooling over that.
Instead, I’m drooling over the way my best friend moves around his kitchen—how he reaches for ingredients with absentminded grace, how the fabric of his shirt stretches across his back when he leans in to grab something, how his big, careful hands work the dough with so much tenderness it’s almost obscene.
He rolls it, slaps it once.
Iliterallygasp.
I bite my lip and shift on the couch, adjusting the way the dress is draped around me. I’ve been without panties for several hours now, just…waiting for Garrik to remember what he promised me this morning.
He might be focused on dinner now, but I’m much more interested in dessert.
I close the book and set it gently on the coffee table, trying not to look like I’ve just spent the last ten minutes imagining climbing him like a tree. Garrik glances over his shoulder at the soft sound of the book closing, brows raised.
“Too boring?” he asks in that amused way that makes me warm and tingly all over.
“Too distracted,” I correct him, biting my lip.
His eyes darken, just for a second—then he turns back to his dough, saying nothing.
Still, his antennae twitch and tinge pink, and I know he’s well aware what I meant.
I walk into the kitchen and push an oversized chair over before climbing up it to perch on the counter. Yeah…watching him work is much more interesting than the book (even if the bookisgood). Garrik’s whole face is pink now, his eyes fixed on his work.
“You’re really good at this,” I say. “I didn’t know.”
“I’ve gotten back into it since returning to M’mir,” he replies. “Cooking…it’s like beekeeping, in a way, or gardening. Patience. Attention to detail. Knowing when something needs heat, or time?—”
I choke a little bit.
Garrik does too.
“And what are we making tonight, Chef Garrik?” I ask.
He bites back a smile. “Flatbread with a citrus-herb glaze. Spiced roots and greens. And I pulled a moonberry wine from the cellar for us, should pair nicely.”
“First you seduce me with a bookstore, now a three-course meal?”
“Technically, it’s only two courses.”
“And what’s for dessert?”
