Page 37 of The Trouble with Flings

They laugh.

Fitz and Deirdra spend a few minutes catching up on each other’s lives, and he tells her about teaching me to surf and the waterfall hike. She teases Fitz about skipping the last few days of his conference and tells me she could never get him to skip school when they were younger.

We all have a good laugh about that.

“Gather around,” Jagger says, and Deirdra excuses herself to join her husband. He takes her hand, and they talk quietly as everyone makes their way over.

Jagger introduces Deirdra to the group and then says, “Today we’ll be making pollo achiotado, chicken in annatto sauce, yucca and plantain chips, corn tortillas, salad, plátano maduro, which are fried plantains, and pico de gallo…”

After we’re all set up, Jagger stands at the head of the room demonstrating how to knead the dough for the tortillas. “The key is to keep it moist. If it’s too wet or too dry, it’s not going to work.”

“Sounds familiar,” Fitz says, and I bump him with my shoulder.

“This is one instance where size matters,” Jagger says with a grin. “Make it bigger than you think you need.”

“Now he’s talking my language,” I say.

Fitz chuckles.

As we knead the dough, Jagger says, “Use both hands, and really work it.”

“You’re excellent with your hands,” Fitz says. “But your mouth?” He waggles his brows.

Jagger guides us through creating balls of dough, and we whisper silly comments, laughing like ridiculous teenagers. Oblivious to our childish humor, Jagger explains how to press the tortillas by hand using nice, even strokes.

Fitz glances at me, his expression full of heat, and we both crack up. I press the back of my hand to my mouth to stifle it. Tears prick at the corners of my eyes as I try to regain my composure, but every time I look at him, it sets me off again.

“You two must be newlyweds,” the older woman calls over.

Before I can respond, Fitz slides his arm around my waist and says, “Is it that obvious?”

“I know love when I see it,” she says. “How long have you been married?”

“Six weeks,” Fitz says. “I still can’t quite believe she’s all mine.”

He sounds so sincere, my heart stutters. I tell myself to correct him, say it’s not true, that this is just a week of fun. But apparently my brain doesn’t register the command, because I lean into him and say, “Six weeks and he’s still trying to convince me he’s not too good to be true. I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop.”

Fitz’s smile softens, and he says, “No falling shoes here. Not now, not ever.”

He presses a tender kiss to my temple, earning a dreamy look from the older woman and an extra beat from my heart. I swallow hard, far too affected by him, and force myself to step out of his grip to go back to what we were doing. But I can’t quite remember what that was.

A little while later, after we make the tortillas, I’m having it out with a piece of chicken on the cutting board. “This feels like a mistake,” I say, staring down at it, holding the knife like a weapon.

“You’re doing fine,” Fitz says, already halfway through slicing his slab of chicken with unfair ease.

“I am not doing fine. I’m one minute shy of grabbing a machete and showing the chicken who’s boss.”

He laughs. “Show me your technique.”

“My technique? I’m trying not to butcher the damn thing, but look at it. Every cut is choppy. Maybe my chicken is tougher than yours.”

“Maybe.” He steps behind me, the heat of his body making my temperature spike as his hand covers mine. “You’ve got to have the right angle, and your grip is too tight.”

“I’m holding a knife. That feels like a situation where tight is appropriate.”

“I can think of another situation where tight is appropriate,” he rasps into my ear, sending shivers of desire skittering through me.

“At least I’m good at that.”