“Stovetop setting adjusted. Ready to cook,” Jamie responds in a prompt, clear voice.
“It looks like Oliver fixed the delay in responding,” I say, more to myself than to her, but she answers anyway.
“And that in a day, given he was occupied with the personality update yesterday. He really is bloody brilliant.” Her voice has a note of admiration that doesn’t escape me. It’swarranted, of course, but it kindles a small flame of jealousy in my chest.
Why though?
I should be so damn happy for Oliver that Amelia seems to finally notice him.
As I start making the béchamel, she watches intently. “I’m never able to make this without it clumping,” she observes, her eyes tracking the whisk in my hands. “You’re really good at this.”
I’d love to show you what else I can do with a flick of my wrist.
“I have many hidden talents,” I joke, stirring the sauce smoothly, which earns me a light chuckle from her. “Jamie, could you set a timer for the lasagna?” I ask while I pour the sauce on top of it.
“Timer set for twenty-five minutes,” Jamie replies promptly.
“Now for the final touch,” I whisper conspiratorially. She leans in, curiosity lighting up her eyes. With a theatrical flourish, I sprinkle a generous amount of cheese over the lasagna. “Voilà!” I declare, grinning as I empty the entire package.
She laughs, a hint of incredulity in her voice. “Isn’t that a bit much?”
Meeting her gaze, I proclaim, dead serious, “There is no such thing as too much cheese.”
I slide the lasagna into the oven, and Jamie announces, “Baking underway. Enjoy your culinary creation in approximately twenty-five minutes.”
“Thank you, Jamie. If cooking with AI assistance always goes this smoothly, I might just do it more often.” She smiles at me, one of her real ones.
Don’t think I haven’t noticed the fake smiles you give out at work, Amelia.
I can’t help but respond with a bit of playful arrogance, “It’s not the AI assistance. It’s the Grey assistance. Without me, you’d still be picking up ricotta off your floor.”
“Well, feel free to come and cook me dinner anytime,” she fires back with a smirk, her tone teasing but not without a spark of challenge.
I would cook dinner for you every day if I could have you as mine afterward.
Not answering her little challenge, since I’m afraid of letting too much of what I really think shine through, I lean against the counter next to her. Crossing my arms, observing her, I notice the shift in her demeanor—the slight retreat into shyness.
It’s intriguing.
She’s sassy, and she has fire, but only if provoked. Left to her own devices, she second-guesses herself, and doubt creeps in.
Amelia is a complex blend of intelligence, vulnerability, beauty, and sass—a combination that keeps drawing me in deeper.
“Want to sit down?” she offers casually, gesturing to the chairs nearby. “The cook doesn’t have to tidy up, or so I’ve heard.”
I chuckle, grabbing a cloth to wipe down the counter behind her. “Shut up. I thought this was teamwork.”
“I mean it, I can—” she starts, but before she can finish, I place the cloth down, step closer, and lift her by the hips to sit her on the counter.
“You mean you can sit and watch? Sure.” I chuckle, keeping my hands on her hips.
This brings us eye to eye, and I’m met with her wide, surprised gaze. A soft gasp escapes her lips.
Fuck.
If circumstances were different, if it weren’t for the eyes I know are watching us and the professional boundaries I’mtoeing, I’d let myself take a chance. I’d pull her close, our faces just inches apart, my hands firm but gentle. “Relax, you’re doing great,” I’d assure her, allowing the moment to unfold naturally, dictated only by the chemistry crackling between us. I bet she would do as she’s told, being the good girl she is.
Amelia’s cheeks flush, and she averts her gaze.
