“What are you doing?” I asked as the scene unfolded, Jonah beelining for the microwave and placing the mug inside.
He hesitated, glancing between me and the crime he was about to commit. “Making youa cuppa?” he said, mimicking my accent.
“In the microwave?”
He looked vaguely defensive. “That’s how you make it.”
“Maybe in hell.” I closed the gap between us, snatching the mug away. “Where’s the kettle?”
“Kettle?” His blank expression told me everything I needed to know.
“Oh my God. Move.” I dumped the‘tea’into the sink before crouching down and yanking open cupboards. I found the stainless-steel appliance and held it up triumphantly.
Jonah leaned against the counter. “I always wondered what that was.”
I shoved the empty vessel at him. “Fill it a quarter up.”
“You know”—he turned towards the sink—“I’ve never understood you Brits and your obsession with this murky brown water.”
He passed it back, our fingers brushing for the briefest second.
“Have you ever considered that might be because you all make it wrong?” I teased, holding his gaze. His eyes were a deep brown, rich, like melted chocolate.
“Funnily, that never crossed my mind.”
Rolling my eyes, I switched on the kettle, the familiar buzz in the air as the water was brought to a boil.
Turning back, my attention was caught on Jonah, watching as he poured from the coffee pot, his jumper sleeves pushed up to his elbows, exposing those forearms.
Unfairly strong forearms.
Clearing my throat, I said, “Can’t believe you’ve been in Scotland for months and no one’s taught you how to make a proper brew.”
“I’m not usually hosting guests.” He leaned back against the counter, sipping from his mug.
I tried not to let my eyes linger. But,damn, he made it difficult. The way his forearms flexed, that sneaking smile, the confidence in how he held himself.
The worst part? He wasn’t even trying.
“Now I understand why,” I muttered.
He gasped, feigning shock. “And here I was thinking we were becoming friends.”
I looked at him plainly, my gaze flickering over his face for a second too long. Long enough for him to notice.
His smirk deepened.
Shit.
I grabbed the tea container, forcing my expression to stay neutral. “Friends don’t microwave cups of tea.”
Jonah hummed, taking another slow sip of coffee. “Mm. So, what do friends do then?”
His voice was casual. However, there was a hint of heat behind the words that made my lower stomach tighten.
“Well, for starters,” I said, clearing my throat, “they don’t commit crimes in the kitchen.”
I dropped the teabag in, reaching for the kettle as Jonah stepped closer. For a brief second, his head nearly pressed to my shoulder; he was that close, peering over me.
