I turned back to the stove.
The sauce was the first thing. Crushing the San Marzano tomatoes by hand, the juice bursting between my fingers, then garlic and olive oil hitting the hot pan with a sizzle that filled the kitchen. The scent bloomed through the air and I heard Knox inhale behind me.
“That,” he said, “is already better than anything I’ve smelled in years.”
“Wait until I add the basil.”
I was dicing onions when I felt him behind me. Not touching. Just close. The heat of his body along my bare back, his breath stirring the hair at the nape of my neck.
“You’re supposed to be in the chair,” I said.
“The chair was too far away.”
His hands settled on my hips, just above the apron tie, and his thumbs traced slow circles against my bare skin. My knife stuttered against the cutting board.
“Knox.”
“Hmm?”
“I’m holding a very sharp object.”
“I trust your reflexes.”
I turned around, pointing the knife playfully at his chest. “Back. Up.”
He raised both hands in surrender and retreated two steps. But he was smiling. That low, quiet, dangerous smile that made my stomach flip.
I went back to the sauce. Stirred. Seasoned. Tasted. Let it simmer while I prepped the chicken, dredging it in flour, then egg, then breadcrumbs, the methodical rhythm of cooking settling into my bones the way it always did.
I was kneading the dough for the garlic bread when I heard him groan behind me.
“What now?” I asked with a smile.
“You’re moving your hips when you knead.”
I froze. Looked down. He was right. The rocking motion of pushing and folding the dough had my hips swaying back and forth, and in nothing but an apron, I could only imagine what that looked like from his angle.
“That’s just the mechanics of kneading bread, Knox.”
“The mechanics,” he repeated flatly, “are going to be the death of me.”
I grinned and kept kneading. Maybe with a little extra sway. Sue me.
The next thing I knew, his hands were on my waist, spinning me around. My back pressed against the counter, and he was right there, his body caging mine, his eyes molten silver.
“Five-minute intermission,” he murmured.
“The sauce is going to burn.”
“Then we’ll be quick.”
His mouth found my neck. My jaw. The spot just below my ear that made every coherent thought dissolve into static. I gripped the edge of the countertop with flour-dusted fingers as he hitched the apron up and sank to his knees.
I looked down at him. This man. This impossibly strong, impossibly gentle man on his knees in my kitchen, looking up at me like I was the only thing in the world worth worshipping.
“Knox, I swear to God, if the sauce scorches …”
“Then I’ll make you new sauce.” And then his mouth was on me.
