Peeking in another drawer, I find several different types ofcheese. Gouda, aged cheddar, brie. That’s when inspiration strikes.
“Do you have any bread?”
“Yeah. There’s a loaf of sourdough in the pantry.”
“Perfect.” I start grabbing the varieties of cheese. “Can you grab it for me? And some butter? I will also need your biggest frying pan.”
“Yes, Boss.”
“I’m not your physio anymore.” I drop my ingredients on the counter next to the stove.
“True.” He moves in behind me placing the bread on one side of me and the frying pan on the other, effectively locking me in. “And it’s a damn shame. I liked having you tell me what to do.”
He’s so close. I wonder briefly if I were to lean back if he’d wrap his massive arms around me and hold me against him. I must wonder too long, because he backs away to retrieve the butter like I asked. I miss the warmth of his body immediately.
Focusing on the task at hand, I turn my attention back to the stove in front of me. At least I think it’s a stove. With all the lights and buttons, it might be part stove, part space craft. I wonder if he bought it the same place he bought his truck. I press the button I think will turn on the burner and nothing happens. I press it again, holding it longer. Still nothing.
Arthur comes to stand beside me. He flips a switch lower down on the control panel before pressing the button. A small blue flame suddenly appears, causing me to step back.
“I take it you don’t have a gas stove,” he muses.
“No, thank God.” I laugh. “I may have caused the occasional small fire when forgetting about something in the oven. I’m certain I’d have blown up our house with flammable gases involved.”
“Running people over with cars, arson…you’re a proper menace to society, Baker.”
I lower my voice to a hushed tone. “And don’t you forget it. Now, scram. I need to focus and you’re a distraction.”
“Pot calling the kettle black,” he murmurs as he steps away. “Wine?”
“Yes, please.” As I reach for the loaf of bread, I wonder what he meant by that. Am I the distraction? It’s hard to imagine anything distracting the driven man I’m sharing a kitchen with, let alone me.
Grabbing the bread knife I cut four thick slices, buttering one side of each. I slice the brie and strip away the rind. If this were a cheese and crackers snack I wouldn’t bother, but I want each bite to be melted and gooey.
As the pan preheats, I assemble the sandwiches. Placing the stacked bread and cheese into the hot pan, I lower the heat as the bread begins to sizzle. I’m determined not to burn the first thing I make Arthur Stetson.
After a minute, I flip the first sandwich. Perfect. Golden brown. I flip the second and watch them closely.
I’m so zoned in I don’t notice Arthur offering me the wineglass until he’s waving it in front of my face.
“Thank you,” I say, accepting it. That’s when I realize how little there is in it. Barely a mouthful. I raise an eyebrow at him. “Running low?”
He smiles. “You’re supposed to assess it.”
“Assess it for what?”
“Just to make sure the taste meets your standards.”
I hold his gaze while I throw back the drink in one gulp. “Tastes like fermented grape juice.”
He smirks. “Excellent. Anything else?”
“Red?”
He laughs good-naturedly. “I’m glad the lady approves.”
I lift the first sandwich from the pan and realize I have nowhere to put it. Arthur appears with two plates. I set it down and repeat with the second.
He turns off the burner as I grab an apple from the bowl on the counter. He hands me a paring knife, our movements careful and instinctive, like a well-rehearsed domestic dance.
