“Just dinner?” She raises an eyebrow, dropping her bag on the counter and sliding onto one of the barstools. “What’s the special occasion? Did we hit some documentary milestone I’m not aware of?”
“Can’t a man cook for his wife without an ulterior motive?” I slide a glass of white wine across the counter to her.
“A man, sure. You?” She takes the wine with a smirk. “There’s always a strategy.”
“No strategy tonight. Just thought we deserved a meal that wasn’t takeout or performed for an audience.” I turn back to the stove, oddly self-conscious now. “First time cooking just for us, that’s all.”
She’s quiet for a moment, and when she speaks again, her voice has softened. “Well, it smells amazing. I’m intrigued.”
“You should be. My pasta is legendary.”
“Among who, exactly?” She sips her wine, watching me over the rim of the glass.
“The entire USC baseball team house. Six guys, one kitchen, and a strict rotation. You learn fast or you starve.”
Her lips twitch. “I bet you were team captain of cooking duty, too.”
“Actually, I was banned for two weeks after the Great Pasta Fire of 2013.” I slice a lemon into paper-thin rounds, enjoying her surprised expression. “Actual flames. Fire truck. Very embarrassing.”
She lets out a real laugh, not the carefully calculatedchuckle she uses for the cameras. “No way. Tell me everything immediately.”
“Not much to tell. Turned my back for two minutes, and suddenly, the fettuccine was an inferno. My roommates didn’t let me live it down for months.”
“And now here you are, making…” She peers into the pan. “Lemon chicken pasta? Quite the redemption arc.”
“I’m what they call multi-talented.” I wink as I drain the pasta and toss it with lemon juice, butter, and parmesan, aware of her eyes following my movements. There’s something intimate about cooking for someone, especially when that someone is Jess, who still manages to surprise me daily despite having lived in my space for a month now.
“You want to help or just heckle from the sidelines?” I ask, nudging a cutting board in her direction.
She swirls her wine thoughtfully. “I’m a phenomenal heckler. Award-winning, really.”
“I know you are.” I roll my eyes and hand her a bunch of parsley. “Chop. Finely.”
“So bossy,” she mutters, but she slides off the stool and joins me at the counter, taking the knife with a confidence that doesn’t quite match her technique.
I move behind her, unable to resist the urge to correct her. “Not like that. You’ll cut your finger off, and I’m not in the mood to drive to the ER.”
“I know how to use a knife,” she protests, but she doesn’t pull away when I place my hands over hers.
“Like this,” I say, adjusting her grip. My chest brushes against her back as I guide her hands, showing her how to anchor the herbs. Her ponytail tickles my cheek, and it takesevery ounce of self-control not to wrap it around my fingers. “Use your knuckles to guide the blade. There.”
She nods, suddenly silent. I’m acutely aware of how close we’re standing. I catch the faint scent of her shampoo, the warmth of her body just inches from mine. My hands linger over hers, longer than necessary.
For a few suspended heartbeats, we just exist. Close. Quiet. Breathing the same air. The city noise fades, and all I can hear is the soft sound of her breath catching slightly.
Her fingers tense beneath mine. “This feels like a lot of pressure for parsley,” she finally says, her voice slightly quieter than before.
I should step away. Let the moment pass. But I don’t. Not right away.
Eventually, I pull back, putting space between us with a practiced calm I don’t really feel.
Together, we finish plating the meal and eat on the couch like the uncivilized heathens we apparently are, passing a single bowl back and forth between us. It’s oddly intimate, more so than the carefully choreographed moments we perform for Dylan’s cameras. Jess steals the bigger pieces of chicken with surgical precision, and I pretend not to notice.
“This is actually good,” she admits, twirling pasta around her fork. “No fire trucks required.”
“Your confidence in me is overwhelming.”
“I maintain a healthy skepticism about all things. It’s what makes me an excellent journalist.”
