“I’m your wife. Where else would I go?”
“Good point.” His other hand came up, tucked hair behind my ear. “Want to help me with something?”
“Depends on what it is.”
“I’m making lunch. You can keep me company.”
“Is that code for ‘watch Michael cook while doing absolutely nothing useful’?”
“Exactly.”
I let him lead me to the kitchen, still thinking about Jack and Pauline, wondering what history was there that everyone seemed determined to keep from me.
But Michael was already pulling out ingredients, and watching him move around the kitchen was quickly becoming one of my favorite things, so I let it go.
For now.
The next afternoon, I stood in the kitchen staring at the recipe on my phone, trying to remember if I’d ever actually made pasta from scratch before.
The dough looked right. Felt right under my hands.
Michael was in the shower. I could hear the water running through the walls, could imagine him in there—and shut that thought down before it went anywhere dangerous.
I rolled out the dough, cut it into strips, and got the water boiling. Added salt. Waited for the rolling boil. Added the pasta.
That’s when I smelled it.
Burning.
I spun around. The towel I’d left too close to the burner was smoking, flames licking up the fabric.
“Shit!” I grabbed it without thinking, dropped it in the sink, turning on the water.
The fire alarm started screaming.
I couldn’t reach it. Too high. I jumped anyway, waving my hands uselessly at the ceiling like that would somehow help.
The bathroom door flew open.
Michael burst out—and my brain completely short-circuited.
He was dripping wet, soap suds sliding down his chest and shoulders like a scene specifically engineered to ruin my self-control, hair plastered to his forehead. A towel was wrapped around his hips—barely—and water dripped onto the hardwood with each step.
“What happened?” His eyes found the sink, the smoking towel. “Are you hurt?”
“I’m fine. The alarm?—”
He was already moving. He grabbed a chair, dragged it over, climbed up and disabled the alarm. The sudden silence was almost as shocking as the noise had been.
He climbed down, and I realized I was staring. At the water running down his chest. At the way his muscles moved under his skin. The tattoos I’d glimpsed that first morning, now fully visible and completely distracting.
“Claudette.” His voice was patient. Amused. “Eyes up here.”
My face went hot. “Sorry. I just—there was a fire.”
“I can see that.” He moved to the sink, inspected the towel. “What happened?”
“I was making pasta. Left the towel too close to the burner. It’s completely my fault.”
