My chest tightens.
The panic starts to creep in, sharp and familiar.
But I keep my eyes on Aspen.
And somehow . . . I breathe through it while she makes me the most overbuilt grilled cheese I’ve ever seen.
My eyes track her as she grabs tomatoes and an avocado from my grocery haul, slicing them, before adding them to the bread and topping it with sliced turkey and cheese.
“That looks like more than just cheese and bread.”
She flips the sandwich, then glances over her shoulder, her hazel eyes skimming over me. “You need more than that to sustain you.”
I get the feeling she’s not looking for a reply, so with nothing else to do, I keep watching her from the stool, trying to figure out what it is about this woman that makes it so damn hard to look away.
A sense of calm that I haven’t felt in years settles over me here in a kitchen where I don’t belong, with a woman I don’t get to keep.
I don’t remember much about the flight other than waking up to her face and knowing as long as I was with Aspen, I’d be okay. It’s the same now, and every time I’ve been near her since—like she gives my nervous system a chance to rest, and I have to remind myself that getting attached is the most dangerous thing of all.
After what feels like an hour of silence between us, she sets the sandwich in front of me. “There you go.”
“It smells incredible.” My stomach growls loudly in agreement.
I lift the sandwich to my mouth, biting. Cheese spills over the edge of the bread, landing on my chin, and I’m quick to wipe it away. “Anything beats hospital food, but I think this is the best sandwich I’ve ever had,” I say, taking another large bite.
Damn, it’s good.
Her smile is radiant, and I see it—this is one of those things she doesn’t mind doing to take care of people.
She brushes me off with a shake of her head. “It’s just a sandwich.”
It’s not just a sandwich. Not even close.
“No, it’s not.” I swallow down the bite, struggling with how to tell her what this means. “This is the first meal anyone outside of my crew has cooked for me in fourteen years.”
Her eyes widen, and something soft breaks across her face before she quickly tucks her hair behind her ear, looking away. “Wow.” Her voice falters. “That’s . . . a lot to put on a sandwich.”
I set down the sandwich. “I’m telling you because . . .” My chest tightens. “I’m not used to this.”
Her brows knit together.
“If I seem ungrateful . . .” I shake my head. “Just know, it’s not you.”
She forces a lightness into her voice that doesn’t match the sadness in her eyes. “Eat up. I’ll check on you later.”
“You don’t have to.”
“I know. I want to.”
Then Aspen slips out, leaving me with the best damn sandwich I’ve ever had, and a problem I never saw coming.
Because somewhere between the helicopter and this kitchen, I forget how dangerous wanting can be.
CHAPTER
FIFTEEN
ASPEN
