Almost there.
I add a pinch of salt. A whisper of white pepper. One more cube of butter.
"One minute."
I don't respond. I'm tasting. Adjusting. Tasting again. At five minutes and forty seconds, I step back.
Perfect.
I set down the whisk and turn to face him.
He's watching me closely in a way that makes my skin shiver with anticipation. No, crawl with disgust. The hair on the back of my neck rises.
Yeah. I hate working in such close quarters to him. That’s what I try to convince myself, albeit not very successfully.
His arms are folded, his expression inscrutable.
"Time?" I raise a brow.
"Five fifty-two."
"Then I had eight seconds to spare."
"You had six minutes."
"And yet, I finished early." I gesture to the pan. "Are you going to taste it, or are you going to keep lecturing me about time management?"
Someone behind me makes a choking sound.
I don’t look at them. I don’t dare take my gaze off the predator who’s, once again, in my space before I can blink.
I take in the tension in his jaw, the scar on his cheek that makes him look like a knight from the dark ages.
“Dip the spoon in the beurre blanc,” he orders.
I frown. Why would I do that? But best not to question him.
“You’re the boss.”
“Don’t forget it.” His voice has a pleased edge to it.
I shoot him a glance, but his face, as usual, doesn’t convey what he’s really thinking. I dip the spoon in the beurre blanc, hold it up.
“Now what?”
He curls his fingers over where mine are wrapped around the spoon. That blue devil’s gaze of his locks with mine.
The sound of the kitchen recedes. It’s just him and me in this strange bubble of intimacy. My pulse rate spikes through the roof. Did the temperature in the room just turn up to incinerator levels?
What. Is. He. Doing?
I’m so shocked, I don’t resist when he brings the spoon to his mouth. I can’t look away as he closes his pouty lips around the spoon. He licks off the beurre blanc with a flash of his pink tongue. And ohmigod. Ohmigod. I think I felt that in places I shouldn’t. My toes curl. Also, I think I self-combusted.
I try to breathe, but my lungs burn. Try to say something, but my words have dried up. His beautiful throat moves as he swallows.
Then he slowly lowers my hand, until the spoon touches the counter, before he releases his hold on me.
The imprint of his fingers burns around my wrist. I feel incapable of moving. Or speaking. Or doing anything. Except stare at him.
