She pulled the beef from one of the grocery bags, unwrapping it carefully. “Can you grab that large glass bowl from the cabinet above the coffee machine? And we’ll need the cutting board.”
I stretched up to reach the bowl, totally aware of her watching me. When I set it on the counter, she was already arranging spices in a neat line, each small jar and container positioned well.
“Normally this would marinate for three days,” she said, picking up a sharp knife. “But I’m going to share a family secret with you.” She glanced at me conspiratorially.
“Your secret is safe,” I said, moving closer to watch.
She began making small, shallow cuts across the surface of the meat. Her knife worked quickly and sharply. “The key is creating more surface area for the marinade to penetrate, like this.” Her hands guided the blade, creating a crosshatch pattern across the beef.
“Can I try?” The words slipped out before I could stop them.
Marley paused, studying my face. “Have you handled a knife such as this before?”
“Not really. We mostly used kitchen knives back home.”
“Here.” She moved behind me, her body warm against my back as she placed the knife in my hand and covered it with hers. “Feel the weight of it first.”
Her breath tickled my ear as she guided my hand, showing me the proper angle and pressure. Every point where our bodies touched lit up at once.
Her chest pressed lightly against my shoulder blades, her thighs brushing the backs of mine.
“Like that,” she murmured, her voice lower than before. “You’ve got to be gentle but confident.”
I tried to focus on the knife, on the meat, on anything except the way her presence was making me dizzy. But when she reached around me to adjust my grip, her arm brushing across my waist, I nearly dropped the blade entirely.
“Steady,” she said softly, and I wasn’t sure if she meant the knife or me.
Together, we finished preparing the meat, her hands occasionally covering mine to guide the cuts. By the time we moved to the marinade, my heart was beating so fast I wondered if she could hear it.
“Red wine vinegar,” she said, stepping away to grab bottles from the counter. The sudden absence of her warmth left me feeling oddly bereft. “Water, and now the real magic.”
She opened small containers of spices, each one releasing its own distinct aroma.
“Taste,” she said, holding out a spoon.
I leaned forward to sip from the spoon, but some of the marinade dripped onto my chin. Without thinking, Marley reached out with her thumb to catch it, her touch feather-light against my skin.
Time seemed to slow down as her thumb lingered at the corner of my mouth, and her eyes darkened as they focused on my lips. The marinade was forgotten entirely.
“Good?” she asked, her voice rough.
I nodded because speaking felt impossible.
She cleared her throat and stepped back, returning to the marinade with forced casualness. “It needs to sit in a warm place for about three hours. The oven light should do it.” But her shoulders looked just a little too stiff.
We submerged the beef in the spiced liquid, and she placed the covered bowl on top of the warm oven.
“Perfect timing for dinner around seven.”
“What should we do until then?” I asked, then immediately regretted how breathless I sounded.
“We could work on our project notes,” she suggested, pulling out her laptop. “And maybe watch something while it cooks later?”
We settled at the kitchen island, but concentration proved impossible. Every few minutes, she’d lean over to point something out on my screen, her shoulder brushing mine. When she reached across to me to grab her pen, her shirt rode up slightly, revealing a strip of skin that made my mouth go dry.
“Do you have any movie preferences?” she asked during one of our breaks, absently twirling her pen between her fingers.
“I don’t really watch many movies,” I admitted. “I’ve never really had the time to.”
