Chapter 12 Shay
Shay
The kitchen smelled like rosemary and butter.
I leaned against the counter, watching Tom move between the stove and the cutting board with the kind of ease that suggested he’d done this a thousand times before.
He’d rolled his sleeves to his elbows—which I very much appreciated—and I found myself tracking the flex and release of his forearm as his fingers curled around the knife handle, the play of tendon and muscle beneath skin.
“You’re staring,” he said without looking up.
“I’m supervising.”
“You’re in the way.”
“I’m providing moral support.” I shifted closer, let my hip bump against his. “It’s an important role.”
He glanced at me then, and there it was—that almost-smile that lived at the corner of his mouth, the one he tried to suppress but never quite managed when I was being deliberately difficult. “Is that what we’re calling it?”
“Would you prefer the term ‘quality control’?”
“I’d prefer you at least three feet away from anything flammable.”
The audacity. How dare he say that? “That was one time!”
“One time is one too many.”
“Rude,” I told him, crossing my arms. “See if I ever cook for you again.”
“I’m begging you not to.”
I laughed, swatting him gently on the shoulder with a spatula. He caught my hand, his thumb pressing against my pulse point.
“Also, I’m going to need this.” He pressed a sweet little kiss to my inner wrist before plucking the spatula from my hand and turning back to the stove.
I observed him for another moment, then eyed the cutting board, where mushrooms sat in a neat little pile, perfectly sliced and waiting.
My hand crept forward with all the stealth of a cat stalking prey, but Tom caught it mid-theft without even having to turn around, seemingly sensing my intent through some sixth sense.
“That’s for the risotto.”
“You have plenty.”
“I measured them specifically—” He stopped and let out a long-suffering sigh, then released my wrist with a defeated shake of his head. “Fine. Take it.”
I popped the mushroom in my mouth, grinning. Victory tasted mildly earthy.
I leaned back against the counter and continued to watch him cook, content to be still for once, to just exist in this moment.
I could do this all day, really. There was something quietly magnetic about the way he moved around the kitchen, all competent focus and unconscious confidence, completely sure of himself.
Then again, maybe I only found it impressive because I could barely boil water without supervision.
“Did I tell you that I ran into Naomi today?” I asked him. “Also, did you seriously agree to a double date with her and Daniel?”
“I didn’t not agree to it,” he said, tone carefully neutral.
My disapproval was loud in the silence that followed.
“What was I supposed to tell her?” He turned to look at me, and there was something almost helpless in his eyes.
“Tell her no,” I said, as if it were the simplest thing in the world.
“You try telling Naomi no.”
He had a point. Naomi’s enthusiasm was a force of nature—relentless, unstoppable, like trying to argue with a hurricane. Once she decided something was happening, it generally happened, whether you wanted it or not. Resistance was futile.
I moved closer, wrapping my arms around his waist from behind. The fabric of his shirt was soft against my cheek, warm from his body heat. He went still for a moment, the way he sometimes did when I initiated contact, like he was surprised that I wanted to touch him.
It made something in my chest tighten—something tender and fierce all at once.
“We don’t have to go,” I said quietly, listening to the scrape of knife against the board. “I can tell her we have plans.”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know. We can tell her that something came up, job-related. Or no—we can tell her that we both got food poisoning. Bad risotto. Very tragic.”
Tom huffed a laugh, the sound rumbling through his chest and into mine. “She’d see right through that.”
“Probably. But at least we’d have tried.”
He reached up and squeezed my hands where they rested against his stomach. “It’s one dinner. We can survive one dinner.”
“You say that now. Just wait until Daniel starts talking about cryptocurrency.”
“Is that what he does?”
“I have no idea. But he seems like the type.”
Tom turned in my arms, and suddenly we were face to face, close enough that I could see the flecks of green in his eyes, the faint stubble along his jaw that suggested he hadn’t shaved this morning.
Close enough to count his eyelashes if I wanted to.
“You’re going to make me burn something,” he said, but his voice didn’t sound too reprimanding.
He kissed me, slow and thorough, before pulling back far too soon.
“Now let me cook before we end up ordering takeout again.”
I frowned, genuinely confused by the problem. “What’s wrong with takeout?”
Take-out was perfectly fine. My favorite thing in the world, even.
“Nothing’s wrong with it. But I told you I’d make you dinner.”
“You make me dinner all the time.”
“Real dinner. Not just pasta and jarred sauce.”
I smiled, stealing another quick kiss before releasing him. “Pasta and jarred sauce is real dinner. Some of us survived on it exclusively before meeting you.”
“Some of us have no sense of self-preservation.”
“Well, you’re feeding me now, aren’t you?”
“Someone has to.” Tom sighed, seemingly put-upon by my apparent lack of ability to feed myself.
I didn’t see the problem. Cooking was for people who didn’t get restless halfway through. Who didn’t wish they could crawl out of their skin after having to stay in one place for more than twenty minutes. Not to mention all those dirty dishes…
“My hero.” I kissed the corner of his mouth, letting my lips linger there for a moment before I forced myself to move away. The dinner was never going to get finished at this pace. “What would I do without you?”
“Starve, apparently.”
I laughed at his dry tone. “Probably. Although I made it most of my life without you, so I must have been doing something right.”
“Takeout and protein bars don’t count.”
“It’s a balanced diet!”
The kitchen was small enough that I could reach the drawer behind him without moving far. I pulled it open, looking for nothing in particular—just restless hands that needed occupation. Spoons rattled against spoons, clinking together like wind chimes.
“Also, you owe me money,” Tom told me, as if remembering just now.
I hummed questioningly, only half paying attention as I rummaged through the drawer’s contents.
“From our bet,” he explained. “You said Naomi and Daniel would break it off after a month. They’re still together, aren’t they?”
Memory clicked into place. I groaned. “I can’t believe you still remember that. That was like forever ago.”
“A bet is a bet, isn’t it?”
There was something smug in his expression, like he was proud of himself for being proven right. It just made me wanna kiss him some more.
“Fine. I wouldn’t want anyone to think I’m not a woman of my word.” I dug out my wallet and pulled out a crumpled bill. “Ten bucks, was it?”
He folded it neatly and slipped it into his back pocket.
“Thank you,” he said, voice prim and proper in a way that made me want to laugh and bite him and maybe shove him a little, all at the same time.
He’d been right before—I may have been a bit of a bully when I was younger, especially around a cute guy.
“You’re welcome.” I moved closer to the cutting board where vegetables lay scattered all over. “Now what can I do?”
Tom looked me over, like he was assessing whether I could be trusted with sharp objects—which, fair enough. I’d burned toast in my own house last week. The smoke alarm had wailed for ten minutes before I finally managed to shut it off.
“You can cut the carrots,” he said, gesturing to the ones lined up beside the board in a neat row.
“That’s it? Just carrots?”
“It’s an important job.”
“It’s a pity job,” I said, glancing up at him through my lashes.
As always, he fell for it. He was such a sucker sometimes.
“Do you want to deglaze the pan, then?”
I had no idea what that meant. I eyed the stove with suspicion. “What does that involve?”
“Wine and high heat.”
“I’ll cut the carrots.” I gave him a solemn nod.
“Wise choice,” he said, handing me the knife.
The carrot rolled slightly when I pressed the blade against it, threatening to escape across the counter. “Circles or sticks?” I asked.
“Circles. Thin ones. Like this.” Tom stepped behind me, placing his hands over mine.
His fingers were warm as they guided me, showing me the right angle, the pressure.
The gentle rocking motion of the blade. His body was pressed up against my back, and I had a feeling that he might be taking advantage of the situation a little.
Not that I minded.
“Mr. Hayes. Are you trying to seduce me?”
“Is it working?” His breath tickled the skin on my neck, raising goosebumps in its wake.
I grinned. “Always.”
I felt a kiss on the back of my neck—soft, lingering—and then, he moved away. His absence felt like a draft, making me suddenly cold.
I started cutting. The first slice came out lopsided, thick on one end and paper-thin on the other. The second wasn’t much better. By the third, I’d found something like a rhythm, though I doubted Tom would call it graceful.
It was nice, though. The two of us, being like this. All domestic and normal. I’d never done this before—cooking with someone, just existing in the same space. It felt like something I could get used to.
I finished cutting the carrots, then moved to search for a bowl. I fished through the cabinets, opening and closing them until something papery crinkled beneath my fingers.
I pulled out a flyer. The paper was cream-colored, professionally printed, with a dove rendered in simple lines at the top.
“I didn’t know you were religious.”
“I’m not,” Tom said, and I held up the flyer to him.