Page 37 of Just Ten Seconds

“Thought so.” He winks. “I’ll make it for you sometime. Do you cook?”

“A little. My mom worked a lot. She was a single woman with two jobs, and then she was out a lot at night. I was home alone a lot, so it was mostly macaroni and cheese and hot dogs. You know, typical kid food that I could make without burning the house down.”

“What do you make now?”

“A simple Sunday sauce and baked chicken but mostly Lean Cuisine. Or Rita feeds me. She’s my landlady.”

“I like this landlady of yours.”

“I’m a good sous chef though. When I was living in the city, I volunteered every week at God’s Love We Deliver. They make meals for the seriously ill—HIV/AIDS and cancer patients mostly.”

“That’s very admirable,” he says. “Here.” He hands me the spoon. “Be my sous chef.”

I put my water bottle on the counter and then take the spoon from Dean. A shiver runs up my spine when he places a hand on my waist and guides me in front of him, placing me between his chest and the stove. I stir the pot as he walks over to the pantry, disappearing into the small room.

My lips vibrate with the nervous exhale of the breath I was holding.

“What’s your plan?” he asks from inside. “Is Warwick part of the long-term plan or just a stopping place for you?”

“I don’t know.” I really don’t. As much as I enjoy working with Jackie, it was never meant to last this long. I just don’t know where to go after this.

He appears again, holding two cans of cannellini beans. “You’ll figure it out. Maybe there’ll be a reason to make you stay.”

I try not to make anything more out of the steady gaze of his eyes on mine as he makes that comment.

With a clearing of my throat, I look back down at the pot. “Maybe.”

He hands me the cans. “Here, add these.”

Hesitantly, I take them. Like a fool, I don’t know how to use his can opener. On my third try, Dean appears behind me, placing his hands around me as he helps me hold the can up to the teeth of the electric opener. As the metal slices into the top, his chest rests further into my back, gently yet with enough pressure that the heat of his body pours through my skin and warms my body.

When he backs away, I add the contents to the pot. He places the spoon in my hand for me to stir with. I do so as he looks at me. His hip and one arm rest on the counter as he hands me the chicken broth.

“Add the whole thing?” I ask.

“We’ll eye it.”

He leans closer as I pour the broth into the pot, a splash at a time, waiting for him to tell me when it’s enough. As I concentrate, a stray hair falls in front of my face. He curls a finger around it and delicately tucks it behind my ear. The feeling is so intimate that I accidentally dump a large amount into the pot.

“Shit!” I say, pulling the box up and onto the counter.

Dean laughs. “It’s perfect. Just perfect.” Those deep blues are smiling along with his mouth. “Are you ready for the secret ingredient?” He holds up a bottle of crushed red pepper. “If you don’t mind, I’ll do this. More than a pinch, and we’ll be on fire.”

I back up from the stove with my hands up. “Like I said, I don’t cook much.”

“You’re doing fantastic.”

As he turns around, I take in the sight. A tall, strong man who works with his hands is bent over a stove, making dinner for him and his child.

“Pasta?” I ask as he takes a box of penne out of a nearby cabinet.

“Amanda won’t eat greens unless there’s a starch. I surrendered to this one long ago. As long as she eats, I’m happy.”

“As long as she gets a part in the play, I’ll be happy. I hope she does well on the audition.”

“I’ll let you know at the next meeting.” His tone is casual.

Little does he know, I won’t be going back to the meeting.