“My hands are very skilled, thank you,” she said. “Perfectly capable of calling for takeout. Or killing a man.”
He blinked. “Noted.”
“Depends on my mood.”
He swallowed hard, pretty sure his voice was at least an octave higher when he said, “Is that so? Well, let’s put those magic hands to the test. You’re on dredging duty.”
As he handed her a bowl of seasoned flour, Cora’s eyes met his. For a moment everything else—chicken, restaurant, reality—faded into the background. All that mattered was how she looked at him. Jack wasn’t entirely sure if they were still flirting or if they’d officially crossed intokill a manterritory. Honestly, with Cora, it might have been both.
He guided her through the steps, hyperaware of every point of contact between them as he showed her how to coat the chicken. The seasoned flour clung to their fingers.
“See? It’s all in the wrist,” he murmured, his hands over hers, marveling at how small and soft they were.
“The wrist, right,” she echoed, her voice a little breathy.
Was it his imagination, or did she lean back into him just a little? The warmth of her body pressed against his was more intoxicating than any wine he’d ever tasted.
They worked in tandem, and when she wasn’t actively trying to burn down the place or threatening him with bodily harm, Cora was a surprisingly decent sous chef. Her knife skills were questionable, but her palate was spot-on. More than once, he found himself distracted by the way shewrinkled her brow in concentration and the way her eyes lit up when she pulled a crisp piece of chicken from the oil.
“So,” he said, watching her sprinkle paprika with surprising precision, “how’d you get so knowledgeable about flavors if you’re such a disaster in the kitchen?”
Cora grinned, clearly not offended by his question. “Easy. I love to eat. Tasting is my superpower. It’s the actual cooking part that trips me up.”
He couldn’t help but chuckle. “Good thing I like cooking for you.”
A faint blush colored her cheeks, and he was captivated by the way the kitchen lights played across her face. Her eyes met his, and for a moment, the air between them crackled with something that had nothing to do with the frying pan.
“Why is that?” she asked softly.
“Because you’re nicer to me when you’re not hungry.”
She tossed a kitchen towel at him, but it did little to ease the tension building between them.
The chicken sizzled away, filling the kitchen with a mouthwatering smell that made his stomach growl. He glanced over, then asked the question that had been nagging at him. “Did Lolly not teach you how to cook?”
Cora sighed, wiping her hands on her apron. The motion drew his eyes to her fingers, and he wondered how they’d feel intertwined with his.
“She tried. I guess I get distracted easily. There’s so much going on, you know? The timers, the temperatures, remembering not to let things explode ...”
“Ah yes, the age-old battle against food explosions.” He nodded, trying to lighten the mood even as his heart rate picked up. “Are you distracted now?” He stepped closer, supposedly to check on the chicken, but really to get into her space. He was close enough to feel the warmth coming off her.
Cora’s breath hitched, a flush creeping up her neck, mirroring the heat rising in his cheeks.
“N-no,” she stammered, then quickly rallied. “I mean, how could I be? I’m in the presence of culinary greatness, right? Your ego is kind of hard to ignore.”
Jack didn’t know why he kept pressing her. Maybe it was stupid, but there was something about seeing her lose a little of that polished control she clung to. And if he could just make her forget, even for a minute, what she came back to Sunrise to do...maybe he could convince her not to do it.
They stood there for a moment, the air between them thick with electricity. He leaned in, pulled by a force as inevitable as gravity.
Then the kitchen door flew open with a bang.
“Yoo-hoo! Something smells delicious in here.”
Aggie’s voice shattered the moment like a dropped wineglass. Cora and Jack jumped apart, as if they’d just gotten caught making out behind the bleachers. Which, honestly, wasn’t too far from the truth.
“Oh, my,” Bea whispered, eyes wide as she clutched her pearls. “Are we interrupting something?”
“Not at all,” Cora said quickly, her face turning the exact shade of the ripe tomatoes on the windowsill. She fidgeted with her apron, smoothing it over and over as if she was trying to iron out the awkwardness. “We were...um ...”
