Chapter 11 #2
Blake glances between Laine and me, jaw tight. Then he exhales through his nose. "Fine. You know what you're doing with this sauce, or are we ordering pizza when you fuck it up?"
Aw fuck. He couldn't have left the grumpy asshole at home. Wait. Shit. We are at home.
Laine's shoulders relax and she grins thank fuck. "I make a pretty decent marinara, and I brought everything we need." She looks between us. "Unless you'd rather order pizza and avoid the risk."
Blake snorts. "Home-cooked beats pizza. Neither of us can cook worth a damn." He raps his knuckles on the wall. "Gotta finish up in the workshop. Try not to burn the place down."
I glare at him, but he just smirks at me.
And then it's just Laine and me, standing in my living room, and this is the first time we've been alone in my space. It should feel awkward or nerve-wracking, but instead it feels... right.
"So," she says, clapping her hands. "Ready to see if I can actually cook? I'm a little rusty."
"I guarantee it's going to be better than anything that's come out of our kitchen in the last two years."
In the kitchen, Laine immediately starts unpacking her bag. Fresh tomatoes, garlic, basil, a bottle of wine, good parmesan cheese. She moves around the space naturally, opening cabinets to find a cutting board, testing the weight of my knives.
I lean against the counter and watch her, because I can't not watch her. She's got this easy confidence in the kitchen, like she's done this a thousand times in a thousand different places. Which, knowing her history, she probably has.
"Nice kitchen," she says. "Good counter space. Though I might have done something a little different with the floors." She runs her toe along the peeling laminate, eyebrow raised, fighting a smile.
"Yeah, that's..." I laugh. "That's temporary. We found a supplier clearing out the cabinets for cheap, and we did the counters, but we can't agree on the floors. I want stone, and Blake wants wood and neither of us wants to back down."
"So you're living with lino out of stubbornness?"
"It's a matter of principle. One of us will give in at some point, but who the fuck knows how long that'll take."
She laughs, and the sound fills up the kitchen in the best way. "I respect the commitment."
"Blake insisted on changing the layout when we renovated. He said any kitchen worth having needs room for two people to work without getting in each other's way."
"Smart man." She starts washing the tomatoes. "Want to help, or are you one of those guys who thinks cooking is woman's work?"
I gasp and press a hand to my chest. "I would never! I will be your... whichever chef is the one not in charge. Fair warning though, I'm shit at chopping pretty much anything."
"How do you guys not cook? Do you eat takeout every night?"
"No. Not often. But there are a lot of frozen meals. Blake makes three recipes on rotation, and I've perfected grilled cheese and tomato soup. We don't starve."
"What recipes?"
"Chili, shepherd's pie, and tacos."
There's that little smile again. "That's a lot of beef."
Laughing, she hands me a knife and shows me how she wants the tomatoes chopped. And I appreciate her hiding her smile when she sees how slow I am. It's so comfortable being with her. Whether we're talking or not, it just feels good.
"You're not regretting skipping the fancy restaurant to slave away in my kitchen?" I ask.
"This is better than any restaurant." She bumps my shoulder with hers. "Besides, I wanted to see where you live. You can tell a lot about someone from their space."
"What can you tell about me?"
She looks around the kitchen, considering. "You're neat but not obsessive. You've got good knives, which means you care about doing things right." She pauses. "And you've got pictures on the refrigerator, which means you value the people in your life."
I follow her gaze to the fridge, where there are photos of all three of us—me, Blake, and Jared—from before deployment, and a few shots from fire crew barbecues.
"Very observant."
"Occupational hazard. You notice things when you spend your life taking care of people."
As she starts building the sauce, I can't take my eyes off her. She tastes as she goes, adjusting seasonings, explaining what she's doing.
"See how the garlic gets fragrant but not brown? That's when you add the tomatoes."
"Mm-hmm." I'm nodding, but I have no idea what she just said. Something about tomatoes.
She's not putting on a show—she's just sharing something she enjoys.
I also get the feeling she's gently trying to teach me.
But I can't focus on her words. She's too distracting with her smiles and the way she casually brushes her hair away from her face. She’s got the cutest little furrow between her brows when she's concentrating.
Focus, man. This is supposed to be helping us get to know each other. And all you've been able to do is stare at her like a lovesick idiot.
"Reid? Did you hear me?"
"Absolutely." I have no idea what she said. "One hundred percent."
She gives me a knowing look. "I asked if you could start the pasta water."
"Right. Yes. Pasta water. On it." Pots. Where are the damn pots. "Did you learn to cook from your family?" I ask.
"God no!" She laughs and shakes her head.
"I didn't mean for it to come out that way.
But my parents traveled around a lot—missionary work, building churches and community centers.
We were always living in a community setting, and they let other people do the cooking.
Mom and Dad are better at logistics and construction than they are at feeding a crowd.
To be honest, my Mom tries, but she is a terrible cook.
Like, really awful." She stirs the sauce, smiling at some memory.
"When I got older, it was trial and error, mostly.
When you're moving every few months, eating out gets expensive.
Plus, I like feeding people." She grins at me.
"It's another way of taking care of them. "
"I'm sensing a theme with you."
"What theme?"
"Taking care of people. It's kind of your thing."
She shrugs, but she looks pleased. "There are worse things to be known for."
The sauce is starting to smell incredible, rich and complex. Laine has me salt the pasta water and set the table while she puts the finishing touches on everything.
"Wine?" she asks, holding up the bottle she brought.
"Definitely."
This feels right. Pouring her a glass of wine, meeting her eyes across the kitchen. Laughing with her. All of it is so much better than I thought it would be.
"Reid?" Laine is looking at me, head tilted, hair cascading down her shoulder. "You okay? You got quiet all of a sudden."
"Yeah, I'm good. Better than good, actually."
"Good. Because I'm about to find out if my sauce is as good as I think it is, and I need moral support."
I step up to the stove with her, watching her stir and scoop out a taste with a spoon. And yep, I stare as she blows on it, then slides the spoon past those gorgeous lips of hers. The little happy sigh she makes hits me right in the chest.
I have to grip the edge of the countertop and press my hips against it. Get it together, Garrison.
Then those rich dark eyes are on mine, and she brings the spoon toward my mouth.
Distracted, I open my mouth like an idiot, and she shakes her head with a laugh.
"It's hot," she says, and blows on it for me.
Right. Forgot that part. Forgot everything, actually, because now her breath is tickling my lips and she's standing so close I can smell her shampoo and my brain has completely short-circuited.
I have no idea what to do with this level of want. No idea what the right next step is. I'm stuck in the land of overthinking, and all I can do is open my mouth and let her slide the spoon in.
The sauce is good. Really good. I think. Honestly, she could have put charcoal in my mouth and I'd happily eat it.
"Good?" she asks, and her voice is a little breathless too.
"Perfect," I manage. And I'm not talking about the sauce.