We step back into the house, the warm air from the lived-in kitchen wrapping around me like a blanket. I lead the way, my pulse still fluttering from… well, everything.
“I should check the food,” I say quickly, because if I don’t give my hands a task, I might start hyperventilating into a decorative plant.
Jason laughs low behind me, and it trips over every nerve ending I have.
I open the oven, and my cooking rises up to greet us, honey warming into caramel at the edges, rosemary blooming in the heat, buttery salmon giving off that rich, savory perfume that make kitchens feel like home.
I did this. I made this.
“Smells…wow,” Jason says behind me, the awe in his voice unmistakable. “Violet, this smells incredible.”
Heat billows over my face as I lean in. “I… hope it tastes like food.”
“Food?” he echoes, stepping closer. “It smells like a restaurant. A fancy one. With a waitlist.”
I laugh, half disbelieving, half embarrassed. “I may have followed the recipe using, uhm… excessive enthusiasm.”
“What does that mean?” he asks, amused.
“I poured the honey with my heart instead of my measuring cup.”
He laughs this warm, startled sound, like he wasn’t prepared to be amused by me.
“Well,” he says, voice still smiling, “I’m sure your heart did an exceptional job.”
My face feels like it’s on fire.
I reach into the oven the way I practiced earlier, hovering my hand above the salmon until the steam brushes my palm. “Feels done…”
“It’s perfect,” he murmurs closer now, close enough that I can feel the warmth of him at my shoulder.
My breath wobbles.
“You’re hovering,” I whisper.
“No,” he says, lower, thicker. “I’m appreciating.”
My knees forget their job description entirely.
I straighten, closing the oven carefully. “We should, uhm… plate.”
“Lead the way,” he says. But his voice, God, his voice, holds something new. Something warm and careful and a little reverent.
I move along the counter, fingers gliding over the plates I laid out earlier. I know where everything is, where I placed each dish, each utensil, each piece of garnish that I hope doesn’t look like stir-fry.
Jason moves with me, close enough for heat to brush my arm but far enough not to touch. Damn, I wish he would touch.
But the restraint feels like a touch all on its own. The kitchen feels smaller, the air charged and electric. Dinner is ready. But I am absolutely not.
God, he smells good.
Clean soap first. Crisp and bright. Then something spicy underneath, warm and subtle, that I just can’t put my finger on. A little sweat from rushing over, purely human and somehow comforting. And cedar, faint, barely there, but grounding. He smells like safety and temptation wrapped together, like everything I shouldn’t want and everything I suddenly ache for.
My chest tightens, the air going thick.
“You okay?” Jason asks. His voice is deep tonight, warm honey poured over gravel.
That voice could unravel me.
