She shakes out her hand, and no matter what she’s about to say, I know she’s not all right.
I point to the table. “Sit. I’ll get some ice.”
I put some ice into a small Ziplock bag and bring it over. Sitting next to her, I carefully hold the baggie on top of her reddened third finger. It’s not as if she doesn’t have another perfectly capable hand to hold the ice in place, but the fact that she lets me do it is quite empowering. When I glance up at her face, she doesn’t seem at all concerned with the finger anymore.
Would she mind if I kissed her again?
It’s all I’ve thought about for the past twenty-four hours. The kiss. The way her hands gripped my neck, my sides, my arms, as if she couldn’t get close enough to me. I thought about all the things that could have—and maybewouldhave—happened were our kids not in the adjacent room.
Her eyes are deep pools of brilliant green with tiny specks of gold around the pupils. They remind me of gemstones. The shade of them changes depending on the light, ranging from light jade to forest green. Right now, with the sun down and the kitchen light mostly behind her, they’re a dark, almost inky-green.
But what I love most about her eyes right now isn’t the color. It’s what I see in them. Warmth. Desire. And maybe a bit of enchantment.
She breaks our stare when her phone timer goes off.
“I, uh… My finger feels much better now. Thanks.” She stands, disposes of the ice pack, and goes over to stir the noodles.
I go back to cutting the chicken, maybe a bit too aggressively.
When I’m done, she drains the noodles and adds both the noodles and chicken to a sauce she made, tosses it all together, spreads it over a bed of broccoli, and sprinkles parmesan cheese and breadcrumbs over the top.
She slides the casserole dish into the oven and sets a new timer on her phone. “This needs to bake for twenty minutes.”
“Great.” I lean back against the counter and cross my feet at the ankles. “Whatever will we do to pass the time?”
A blush works up from her chest to her face. God, I love it when she blushes. I’m about to throw all caution to the wind and kiss her, when she grabs a large bowl off the counter and shoves it into my gut. “Make a salad?”
“Cock-blocked by greens,” I mumble, then chuckle to myself.
Her jaw slackens.Shit, she heard that?
“And what makes you think I want to go anywhere near your, um…” Her gaze gravitates down to my pants.
I put the bowl aside and step closer. “The eyes don’t lie, Kenna.”
She swallows. My eyes are glued to her supple neck, following the involuntary movement. I’m pretty sure I can see her pulse pounding in her artery. And damn it, I really want to put my lips there to feel it.
Ping.
The sound comes from her phone. She doesn’t move for a long, drawn-out moment, where her eyes once again reveal just how much she wants this.
The ping sounds again. And then a third time.
“Someone is texting you.”
I’m not sure why I say it. I don’t want her to move. Maybe it’s a challenge to see if she can resist the urge to look at her phone. If she can prioritize this moment we’re having over whatever is waiting for her on her device.
“Mommy, I’m hungry.”
She spins around. “Dinner will be ready in fifteen minutes, baby.”
I guess I’ll never know the answer to my internal musings.
Bug and Christian appear behind Amelia. “Can we help?”
I hand Bug the bowl. “Get started on a salad?”
“Sure.”
