Tom looked me over, like he was assessing whether I could be trusted with sharp objects—which, fair enough. I’d burned toast in my own house last week. The smoke alarm had wailed for ten minutes before I finally managed to shut it off.
“You can cut the carrots,” he said, gesturing to the ones lined up beside the board in a neat row.
“That’s it? Just carrots?”
“It’s an important job.”
“It’s a pity job,” I said, glancing up at him through my lashes.
As always, he fell for it. He was such a sucker sometimes.
“Do you want to deglaze the pan, then?”
I had no idea what that meant. I eyed the stove with suspicion. “What does that involve?”
“Wine and high heat.”
“I’ll cut the carrots.” I gave him a solemn nod.
“Wise choice,” he said, handing me the knife.
The carrot rolled slightly when I pressed the blade against it, threatening to escape across the counter. “Circles or sticks?” I asked.
“Circles. Thin ones. Like this.” Tom stepped behind me,placing his hands over mine. His fingers were warm as they guided me, showing me the right angle, the pressure. The gentle rocking motion of the blade. His body was pressed up against my back, and I had a feeling that he might be taking advantage of the situation a little.
Not that I minded.
“Mr. Hayes. Are you trying to seduce me?”
“Is it working?” His breath tickled the skin on my neck, raising goosebumps in its wake.
I grinned. “Always.”
I felt a kiss on the back of my neck—soft, lingering—and then, he moved away. His absence felt like a draft, making me suddenly cold.
I started cutting. The first slice came out lopsided, thick on one end and paper-thin on the other. The second wasn’t much better. By the third, I’d found something like a rhythm, though I doubted Tom would call it graceful.
It was nice, though. The two of us, being like this. All domestic and normal. I’d never done this before—cooking with someone, just existing in the same space. It felt like something I could get used to.
I finished cutting the carrots, then moved to search for a bowl. I fished through the cabinets, opening and closing them until something papery crinkled beneath my fingers.
I pulled out a flyer. The paper was cream-colored, professionally printed, with a dove rendered in simple lines at the top.
“I didn’t know you were religious.”
“I’m not,” Tom said, and I held up the flyer to him.
He wiped his hands on a dish towel and took it from me, studying it like he’d never seen it before. His brow furrowedslightly. “Ah, yes. Someone must have given it to me or something.”
He returned to the stove, but I kept looking at the flyer in my hands. The dove. The address printed in neat serif font. The name at the top, arched over the dove’s wings in letters that seemed to pulse with sudden familiarity.
St. Joseph’s Catholic Church
“Want me to toss it?” I asked.
“Sure. It’s just clutter.”
But I didn’t throw it in the trash. I set it on the counter, picked up the knife again, and pressed it against another carrot, the blade biting into orange flesh.
