“Why do you think I’m always bringing over food?” Alex added.
After taking care of my usual morning duties (greeting the guests, making drinks, folding the ends of toilet paper into little triangles) and my not-so-usual duties (making lavender water for Bitty and crafting a tiny dog-sized sailor hat for her birthday party), Nina sent me to help Alex with lunch.
Alex didn’t notice me when I walked into the galley. He was bent over a counter, his usual look of concentration more severe as he struggled to mix something with his good hand. He’d stripped off his bloody chef’s coat, and I tried not to let my eyes linger on the way his white T-shirt clung to his broad shoulders.
I cleared my throat, and he looked up at me with a grin. “Am I glad to see you!”
I crossed the galley to wash my hands in the sink. “No offense, butthank youfor injuring yourself. I needed to get away from those people. They treat that dog like actual royalty. It has its own tiny blow-dryer,and I had the pleasure of using it. I had to dry Bittyin the direction of the fur,” I said, imitating the voice of Mrs. Daniels, the primary. “And let me tell you, that dog doesnotenjoy it.” I paused in my tirade and dried my hands on a dish towel, noticing the hip-hop music Alex had on. “What is this playlist?”
“I believe the title of this playlist isSongs That Make Me Feel Like a Bad Bitch.” I cocked an eyebrow at him. He threw up his hands. “I didn’t make it. Nina added it. It’s good, right?”
“It definitely sounds like a Nina playlist,” I said, wondering when she and Alex had talked about it, not that it really mattered. I scanned the galley. “So, what are we making, Chef?”
“The dog food is already done, so we’ll be cooking for the humans. For an appetizer, we’re making beef vol-au-vents with a beet and marmalade chutney. Lunch will be red mullet with wild fennel, oven-dried tomatoes, and pickled eggplant.”
I stared at the ingredients on the counter. “I think you are seriously overestimating me.”
Alex passed me his knife with a laugh. “You’re only the prep cook. Why don’t you start by dicing the beets for the chutney, and I’ll finish up these vol-au-vent cases.”
I stepped up to the cutting board and beets. My back was to Alex, but I was aware of him across the galley, humming under his breath to the music. I looked down at the knife in my hands, feeling self-conscious. What did I know about cooking? I had zero skills, even for the basics. If I bought vegetables at the store, it was always the precut kind. Alex could halve and dice and chop like it was second nature. I set a beet in the center of the cutting board and pushed the knife into it, working slowly, the pieces not quite as uniform as I was sure Alex needed them to be.
I’d finished dicing the first of the beets when I felt Alex standing behind me, which made me more unsure of myself. I tried to work faster, but it only made my dicing sloppier.
“You’ll chop your fingers off like that, and I don’t want you ending up like me,” he said. He stepped closer, his uninjured hand hovering over mine. “Can I show you something? Do you mind?”
“Oh. Uh, yeah. Go ahead.”
Alex stepped closer and rested his hand on mine. “Make a claw with your left hand,” he said. “It protects your fingers. That was my mistake earlier. Because you distracted me.”
“I wasn’t distracting you,” I said. “Youwere talking tome.”
“Talking to you was very distracting,” he said, and his breath against my neck made the hair there stand on end. “Claw, please,” he added.
I drew my fingers inward. “Claw, got it.”
“Great. Now you’ve almost got the right grip.” He squeezed my hand under his. “But you really ought to pinch the blade with your thumb and forefinger—it’ll give you more control. And wrap your fingers around the handle.” He shifted my hand forward and curled my fingers gently beneath his.
“Instead of chopping straight down like this,” he said, lifting the knife (and our hands) straight up and down, “you should do a rocking motion.” His chest pressed against my back, and he tipped the blade forward, rocking it back up in a single fluid motion. “Does that make sense?”
“Uh-huh.” Was my hand sweaty? Could he tell it was sweating? What temperature had he set that damn oven to anyway? And why was this playlist so... provocative? I did not feel like a bad bitch with Alex standing behind me. I felt like I couldn’t breathe.
With his hand wrapped around mine and his chest to my back, Alex guided me through one of the beets. The knife clicked against the cutting board as he murmured in my ear, “Make sure you’ve got a firm but relaxed grip. And use enough force. Most people don’t use enough force.”
“Firm and forceful,” I said.
“But relaxed.”
“But relaxed,” I repeated. Our hands stilled, his resting on mine forwhat was probably only a few seconds but felt much longer. His breath was warm in my ear, and despite the rhythmic bass of the music, I thought I could feel his heart beating against my back. Alex passed his thumb over the top of my hand. (An accident? A caress?) For one wild second, I had the urge to drop the knife, turn around, and kiss him.
But then he cleared his throat, breaking the trance. He released my hand and jumped back as if he’d been burned.
“You’re a natural,” he said, standing there with his hands on his hips as if nothing had happened.
I blinked at him. Had he sensed that too? Or was it all in my head? The next moment he was across the galley, as far away from me as possible. He crouched beside the oven and looked in at the puff pastry, rubbing at the back of his neck with his good hand.
“Everything all right with those beets?” he called without turning to look at me.
“Just peachy. Or beety, I guess. Hey, do you think I should drop abeet?” I laughed, holding one up in my hand, but Alex either hadn’t heard or hadn’t thought the joke was funny. What the hell was wrong with me? Had I been single for so long that all it took to get me worked up was a touch on the hand and some hip-hop music? Had I suddenly wandered into a Jane Austen novel? If Jane Austen had somehow wandered into a nightclub? A nightclub that offered cooking lessons?
