Page 74 of The Accident

She’s barefoot, the heels of her feet pale against the black tile. The dress is a thin, sky-blue thing with little straps barely containing her shoulders, the whole length of her hair knotted up in a way that makes her neck look long and soft. There’s no apron, so when she reaches for the pepper grinder, the dress tugs across her back and the hem lifts, showing a strip of thigh and the faint line where her underwear must be digging in.

She’s so in it — the cooking, the humming, the private rhythm of her body — that she doesn’t notice me at first. I watch her for a beat, keys resting in my hand, letting the edges of my irritation melt away. This is the best part of coming home. I could stand here all night, inventorying the shape and color of her, letting her female energy domesticate me.

I set the keys on the marble and clear my throat. She jumps, then whips around, spoon in hand, blue eyes going huge.

“Oh! You scared me,” she laughs, setting the spoon in a ceramic rest. “You’re home early.”

I check the clock over the range. It’s 7:15.

“Am I?” I say, and for a second it’s just us, her at the stove and me in the threshold, the city below us lit up like a hardware store Christmas aisle. The glass makes everything outside look both close and infinitely far away.

She leans back against the counter, arms crossed at the elbows. I see the faint smudge of flour at her collarbone, the soft flush in her cheeks. I want to bite her there, mark her again. Instead, I loosen my tie and undo the top button.

“Smells good,” I say, nodding at the pan.

She grins, bashful. “It’s just soup. I was feeling basic.”

“That’s my favorite flavor.”

She looks away, pretending to check the pot, but I catch the smile before it disappears. She dips a spoon, sips, blows on it, then gestures at me.

“Want to taste?” she offers.

I cross the kitchen, crowding her back against the counter. The dress is even flimsier up close, the straps an afterthought. Her hair smells like vanilla and the back of her neck is still warm from the steam. She holds the spoon up, but I shake my head and dip a finger in the broth instead, then drag it slow along the seam of her lips.

She shudders, just a little, and her tongue darts out to taste it.

“Good girl,” I say, voice low.

She blushes, but then a look crosses her face — a flash of nerves, maybe, or something more complicated. She pulls away and grabs two bowls from the shelf.

“Want to eat at the table?” she says, already pouring soup, not looking at me.

I don’t answer, just take the bowls and follow her to the dining area, a slab of walnut and chrome with two chairs. The wall of windows holds the whole city, the Mississippi winding black through the lights. She sits across from me, hands folded, the hem of her dress riding up farther now that she’s perched on the seat.

The soup is creamy, lemon and dill and something savory underneath. She sips slowly, spoon working in steady circles, like she’s not really hungry. I let her have a minute, then say, “How was your day?”

Kayleigh smiles sunnily.

“It was okay. Nothing to report, really. You spoil me because I don’t even work at the plant store anymore. I’m basically your kept woman, puttering about the penthouse and doing things like going to Pilates and organizing my TBR list.”

I lean forward.

“Do you want to do more? I’m happy to help you find a job, if you want.”

Kayleigh thinks for a moment, biting her lip. “I’m not sure about the job thing. Keeping you happy is a job in and of itself, big guy.”

I lean forward to seize her lips again, reveling in their softness.

“And that’s the way I like it,” I growl. “I like coming home to find a beautiful woman at the stove, whipping up a hot meal for us. Then, I like enjoying said meal with the beautiful woman before taking her upstairs and savoring her curves in bed. It genuinely helps relieve the stress of the day, but I know it sounds insanely patriarchal to state that. But it’s the truth. It’s just what I like.”

Kayleigh nods, biting her lip.

“And I guess that’s one of the things that I’ve come to realize too. I like playing that role in your life, even though it doesn’t require a degree. I like being dependent on you, Trevor. I like feeling taken care of, and knowing that I’m safe, here with you.”

Possession sweeps through my chest as I lean forward to kiss her again.

“You’re always safe with me, sweetheart. I swear it.”