He clears his throat. “Good idea.” There’s a crack at the end of his words.
Great! Way to make things awkward.
While I pour the wine, Jason stands farther away from me, so I can no longer feel the heat pulsing off me. It feels like a loss, but I don’t blame the guy.This isn’t Kissing 101, Violet.
“Ready to up the heat?”
“Excuse me?” My turn to croak.
“The…uh, cooking part. On the stove?”
“Oh…uh…yeah, definitely.”
At the stove, he stands behind me again, and if my brain isn’t stuck in some fantasy reel instead of reality, it feels like he’s even closer. So close I can feel his cellphone digging into my back. If that is his cellphone.
Stop it, Violet.
He slides his hand down my arm until he reaches my wrist. I swear he’s method-cooking, because he traces the length of my arm like he’s blind and the goosebumps that have erupted all over my skin is braille.
“We’re not stirring this,” he says, voice low and wicked. “We’re flipping it.”
Oh honey… if he flips me like that pan, we’re both in trouble.
“You feel the difference?” he asks.
“Hmmm?”
There’s that chuckle again, low and warm, a little smug. “Flipping versus stirring.”
Well, flip me sideways. I don’t feel anything other than the heat spreading between us like wildfire.
“Uh… yes,” I whisper. “It’s… fun.”
He smiles—I can hear it. Worse, I can feel it, like warmth blooming under my skin, spreading in places he has absolutely no business influencing.
The food is sizzling in the pan, but that’s not the only thing. My whole body is starting to sizzle. Damn. I think it’s time for some alone time with BOB—my battery-operated boyfriend—who has never judged me, never stood too close, and never whispered about flipping versus stirring in that voice.
I’m just about to melt straight into him when he steps back.
“And that’s a wrap. Cashew chicken for two… three if you want to give some to Reggie.”
Jason whines from the doorway—a strange sound, not his usual soft, questioning note. More… restless. Off. Almost like he’s irritated or queasy, or maybe just done with whatever this slow-burn cooking show we’re performing is.
“Sure,” I say, stirring the pan to ground myself. “There seems to be plenty here. None for you though, Jason. You don’t sound like yourself, buddy.”
He gives another noise—something between a huff and a growl—and yeah… that’s not tummy trouble. That’s a mood.
I dish a generous portion into a container for Reggie while Jason slides plates onto the table. The smell is heavenly—warm soy, ginger, toasted cashews—and for once I feel like a real adult who hasn’t merely survived a grocery store but conquered it.
“Do you think Reggie will enjoy this?” I ask, snapping the lid closed.
“He’ll eat anything that doesn’t run faster than him,” Jason says, amused.
I laugh and follow him to the table. Jason pulls out a chair for me—of course he does—and the moment I sit, the heat from the stove fades enough that I can finally smell him again. Cedar, smoke, something darker and warm that curls low in my belly.
Focus, Violet.Food. Eating. Chewing. Not imagining things.
We take the first bites together.
