Without a second thought, he pulls one from the block and places it into my hand. “We’ll use a chef’s knife for that. Make sure you’ve got a good grip on it.”
I wrap my fingers around the handle, adjusting my grip like he suggested. The weight of the knife is surprisingly natural in my hand, but it’s hard to focus when he’s hovering and watching me. His closeness does nothing to help my nerves.
I place the onion on the cutting board, the pungent odor hitting me like a punch to the face.Onions. There’s absolutelynothing sexy about them. Nothing romantic about the sting that immediately starts crawling up my nose or the way my eyes water before I begin. This is not the sultry cooking scene I had envisioned. This is a tear fest.
“Now,” he continues, “keep the knife angled down just slightly so it doesn’t slip.”
It’s impossible to ignore how his voice seems to resonate with me so well in the quiet kitchen, or the way the space suddenly feels a bit too small with him so close.
I glance at the blade, trying to mimic his instructions. “Like this?”
He moves just a fraction closer. “Mm, not quite. Here.”
I freeze when he moves in behind me, his breath warm against the back of my neck as he leans in. The heat from his touch lingers as he gently adjusts my grip on the knife, guiding it with a steady and reassuring pressure.
“Like this,” he murmurs softly. “And then you’ll want to take the onion with your other hand and grip it firmly before you start dicing.”
My thoughts take an unexpected detour. I can’t help but think about gripping something else, something a lot less…culinaryin nature. A flush creeps up my neck as my thoughts veer into dangerous territory.
Shit.
Has Bree taken over my mind, planting these dirty thoughts?
I try to refocus, but my brain is on a loop, running through every thought except what Ishouldbe doing. Like paying attention to the task at hand. The second he leans in again, I’m overwhelmed in the best way. I hear the sharp intake of his breath before he speaks.
“Ah, make sure you keep your fingers tucked on that hand or you’ll haveanother incident.”
It’s a reminder I definitely don’t need, but his voice is so low—so close—that my body forgets how to function. His hands guide mine again, but it’s the way he’s standing behind me that undoes me. His broad chest brushes against my back, all heat and muscle, and I swear I can feel every inch of him.
The space between us is nonexistent, and when his mouth presses close to my ear, everything inside me tunes into his proximity. It’s dizzying.
If I turned my head slightly in his direction right now…
“Juliette?”
His voice cuts through the haze of my thoughts, snapping me back to reality. I blink a few times, trying to clear the fog.
“I’m sorry, what were you saying?”
He moves to stand beside me. The absence of his warmth leaves behind a lingering chill.
“I just said your positioning looks good now. I think you’re ready to give it a try.”
I nod and get to work. Every now and then, I catch him watching me. Not in a calculating way, but like he’s genuinely curious about my abilities, or lack thereof.
“So,” I start. “How long have you been cooking like this?”
He smiles, his attention momentarily shifting to me. “Since I was a wee lad. My grandmother wouldn’t let any of us leave her kitchen without knowing how to feed ourselves properly.”
“That’s really sweet.”
“It was something,” he says dryly. “Although, the first thing I ever tried to cook without her supervision was an absolute disaster.”
“Oh, now this I need to hear.”
He groans. “I was maybe ten? Thought I’d surprise my mum with breakfast. Figured eggs were easy enough.” He shakes his head, grinning at the memory. “I didn’t take the shells off before I scrambledthem.”
My laugh bursts out before I can stop it. “No.”
