He glanced at me then, and there it was—that almost-smile that lived at the corner of his mouth, the one he tried to suppress but never quite managed when I was being deliberately difficult. “Is that what we’re calling it?”
“Would you prefer the term ‘quality control’?”
“I’d prefer you at least three feet away from anythingflammable.”
The audacity. How dare he say that? “That was one time!”
“One time is one too many.”
“Rude,” I told him, crossing my arms. “See if I ever cook for you again.”
“I’m begging you not to.”
I laughed, swatting him gently on the shoulder with a spatula. He caught my hand, his thumb pressing against my pulse point.
“Also, I’m going to need this.” He pressed a sweet little kiss to my inner wrist before plucking the spatula from my hand and turning back to the stove.
I observed him for another moment, then eyed the cutting board, where mushrooms sat in a neat little pile, perfectly sliced and waiting. My hand crept forward with all the stealth of a cat stalking prey, but Tom caught it mid-theft without even having to turn around, seemingly sensing my intent through some sixth sense.
“That’s for the risotto.”
“You have plenty.”
“I measured them specifically—” He stopped and let out a long-suffering sigh, then released my wrist with a defeated shake of his head. “Fine. Take it.”
I popped the mushroom in my mouth, grinning. Victory tasted mildly earthy.
I leaned back against the counter and continued to watch him cook, content to be still for once, to just exist in this moment. I could do this all day, really. There was something quietly magnetic about the way he moved around the kitchen, all competent focus and unconscious confidence, completely sure of himself.
Then again, maybe I only found it impressive because I couldbarely boil water without supervision.
“Did I tell you that I ran into Naomi today?” I asked him. “Also, did you seriously agree to a double date with her and Daniel?”
“I didn’tnotagree to it,” he said, tone carefully neutral.
My disapproval was loud in the silence that followed.
“What was I supposed to tell her?” He turned to look at me, and there was something almost helpless in his eyes.
“Tell her no,” I said, as if it were the simplest thing in the world.
“You try telling Naomi no.”
He had a point. Naomi’s enthusiasm was a force of nature—relentless, unstoppable, like trying to argue with a hurricane. Once she decided something was happening, it generally happened, whether you wanted it or not. Resistance was futile.
I moved closer, wrapping my arms around his waist from behind. The fabric of his shirt was soft against my cheek, warm from his body heat. He went still for a moment, the way he sometimes did when I initiated contact, like he was surprised that I wanted to touch him.
It made something in my chest tighten—something tender and fierce all at once.
“We don’t have to go,” I said quietly, listening to the scrape of knife against the board. “I can tell her we have plans.”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know. We can tell her that something came up, job-related. Or no—we can tell her that we both got food poisoning. Bad risotto. Very tragic.”
Tom huffed a laugh, the sound rumbling through his chest and into mine. “She’d see right through that.”
“Probably. But at least we’d have tried.”
