“It is not on—”
The oil catches. A small, contained, entirely manageable flame leaps from the surface of the pan and reaches about four inches into the air before I grab the lid from beside the stove and smother it. The flame dies. Smoke continues to climb.
The kitchen smells like a bad decision.
Cole leans against the doorframe with both arms crossed, his mouth already losing the fight against a smile. Behind him, Dante appears, drawn by the smoke, or the swearing, or the instinct that brings him to the kitchen whenever it is being misused.
“What are you doing?” Dante says.
His voice is flat, every word clipped clean. His gaze cuts across the kitchen, the smoking pan, the uneven tomatoes, the garlic under the refrigerator, the blood on my finger.
Then it stops on the jersey, on his number hanging over my body.
His gaze slows. It starts at my collar and drags down. His jaw tightens, works once, then goes still.
“I’m cooking.”
“You’re committing arson.”
“I’m cooking you dinner because you cook for me every night and I wanted to do something nice and the garlic went under the refrigerator and the oil had opinions.”
“The oil had opinions,” Cole repeats, and the smile wins.
“Don’t laugh at me.”
“I’m not laughing.”
“You’re grinning.”
“I’m grinning with love and admiration for your courage in the face of—”
“Finish that sentence and you sleep on the couch.”
Dante crosses the kitchen. He turns off the burner, moves the smoking pan to the back of the stove, and examines the tomatoes with the grim focus of a man assessing structural damage. When he picks up the cutting board and tilts it, the uneven pieces slide together in a way that makes my stomach tighten with preemptive irritation.
“These are—”
“Don’t.”
“—enthusiastic.”
“Dante.”
He sets down the cutting board and looks at me. Then he lifts me.
He lifts me with both hands on my waist, easy as breathing, and my stomach drops before my ass hits the counter. One second I am standing between the smoke, the cut tomatoes, and the missing garlic, and the next I am on my spot, legs dangling, the worn place in the counter lining up beneath me.
Dante steps back and surveys me with quiet satisfaction. Then his thumb brushes the eight on my hip. Once.
The touch is lighter than the lift, which somehow makes it worse. He lets the touch speak for him.
“Sit there,” he says. “Let us handle this.”
“That’s sexist.”
“It’s survival. The kitchen was on fire.”
“A small fire.”
