He grins. “You should see Christmas.”
I picture it without meaning to. Loud. Warm. Full of opinion and food and people who talk over each other with affection. The image settles somewhere inconvenient.
“Is that a threat,” I ask, “or an invitation.”
“Neither,” he says lightly. “A warning.”
He turns back to the pan, stirs once, tastes again, then glances at me sideways. There is a look there. Calculating. Dangerous.
“Open your mouth.”
I blink. “Excuse me.”
“To taste,” he adds, entirely too innocent. “Unless you’ve suddenly developed trust issues.”
“I have always had trust issues,” I say. “Particularly with men who enjoy proving points.”
“I’m not proving a point,” he replies. “I’m feeding you.”
“That sounds worse,” I say.
He dips a spoon, blows on his tomato creation and lets it cool for a beat longer than necessary, then steps closer. Too close. Close enough that I can smell the sauce and him and the faintest hint of soap underneath everything else.
“Open,” he repeats and I swear his voice has gone an octave deeper.
I hold his gaze. “If this ends with me scalded, I will sue you.”
“You’d lose,” he says.
I open my mouth.
He feeds me. Slowly. The spoon pauses just inside my lips for a fraction longer than required. Long enough to be deliberate. Long enough to put all sorts of images into my head.
The kitchen does not exist for half a second.
The sauce is rich and balanced and warm in a way that feels personal. I swallow, eyes still on his.
“Well,” I say, because I refuse to moan in a professional environment.
“Well,” he echoes, smug.
“That was reckless,” I tell him.
“You liked it.”
“I am assessing.”
“You leaned in,” he says. “That’s not assessing.”
“I was avoiding spillage.”
“Of course you were.”
I fold my arms. “You’re doing this to distract me.”
He smiles. Not wide. Not cocky. Something sharper. “Is it working?”
I hate that it might be.
