I set the glass down. My hands are steadier.
I’m never filming anything again.
I’m absolutely filming again tonight.
9
Lance
George’s kitchen smells like cumin and lime the second I walk in, which is about right for a man who grew up on his abuela’s cooking and knows his way around fire. The space is small, set up for one person to work without getting in the way, or two if they can manage each other. There’s a pot going on the back burner, with the ingredients laid out across the counter, showing how organized he is in his own kitchen.
“You can’t chop with that hand,” I point out, nodding at the splint.
“That’s why you’re here,” he says, without looking up from whatever he’s stirring. “You’re here to be more useful.” He nudges a cutting board toward me across the counter, along with bell peppers and an onion. “Small dice on the peppers. Thin slices on the onion.”
“You’re bossy in your own kitchen.”
“You want to eat or not?”
I pick up the knife and turn it in my hand like that’s going to help. I make the first cut, then another, already aware I’m fucking it up.
We had a family chef, likely from a long line of cooks who worked for political households and old-money circles, and mymother’s idea of cooking was mostly giving directions and leaving the rest to them. Standing here looking incompetent in front of this man in particular feels embarrassing as hell.
George watches for about a minute or two before he exhales. “What are you doing?”
“Cutting.”
“That’s not cutting. You’re murdering a vegetable.”
“Yeah, well,” I mutter, adjusting my grip. “It’s not exactly something I’ve had practice with.”
George regards me. His expression eventually eases, the tension leaving his brow as understanding comes through. The sharpness from before is gone, replaced with something warmer.
He steps in behind me before I can argue. His firm chest presses flush against my back, the faint scent of his soap and the simmering spices wrapping around me. Even with the splint on his injured hand, he reaches around carefully, his good arm sliding along mine as he takes the knife and repositions my fingers with surprising gentleness.
“Hold it like this,” he says, low and intimate, right by my ear. His splinted hand rests lightly against the back of mine for support, while his uninjured fingers guide me in holding the bell pepper. The contrast of his rough, capable touch against my skin sends heat low in my stomach. “Knuckles forward so you don’t slice your damn hand open.”
“Yeah,” I manage, barely above a whisper. “I know what a bad cut looks like.” But all I can focus on is the way his body molds perfectly against mine, the steady rhythm of his breathing, and how safe—how right—it feels to be surrounded by him.
“Good. Don’t make one on my watch.”
His warm and protective hand stays over mine a moment longer than necessary, as he moves the blade with me in one clean, controlled stroke. “You don’t force it. Let the knife do the work.”
“Right,” I breathe, heart hammering. Every point of contact feels electric—his chest to my back, his thighs brushing the backs of mine.
“Again.”
I follow his lead, slower this time. The cut comes out cleaner, but I’m barely paying attention to the pepper anymore. I’m very much aware of him—the strength in his injured but still-supportive hold, the way he’s breathing me in just as much as I’m drowning in him.
“There you go,” he murmurs, like his body isn’t still pressed tight behind me. His hand lingers, thumb brushing softly over my knuckle, before he finally pulls away like nothing happened.
I keep chopping, but my skin buzzes everywhere he touched me. My brain is frantically trying to categorize every point of contact as “Totally Normal And Not Remotely Charged,” but it’s doing an absolutely shit job of selling the lie.
“Pass me the garlic,” George says. He adds it to the pot and the smell intensifies, rich and savory. I’m chopping more peppers and trying not to think about how well we fit together in this small space. I have to say, objectively, that men who can actually cook are stupidly hot. Yes, that includes me now, even if I’m only on knife duty.
“You realize you’re incredibly husband material, right?” I tell him.
“Fuck off,” George says, but he’s grinning.
