Chapter 4 #2
I lean in slightly, notebook forgotten for the moment. “What is it about then?”
“Patience,” he says. “And restraint.”
I smile faintly. “You don’t strike me as restrained.”
His mouth twitches. “You don’t know me well enough.”
“I can make informed assumptions and the rest time will tell,” I say.
He shoots me a look with these blue eyes that should come with a license. “See. That. That is antagonising.”
“I’m clarifying the timeline.”
He shakes his head, but he’s smiling now. It softens him, changes the lines of his face. I notice and immediately resent my own noticing.
“Garlic goes in cold,” he continues. “Always.”
“That’s controversial,” I say. “Half the internet would like a word.”
“Half the internet can ruin their own dinner,” he replies. “You warm it slowly, you let it infuse, not burn. Burnt garlic is bitterness pretending to be depth.”
I hum. “I might quote that.”
“You will not,” he says.
“I absolutely will.”
He glances at me. “Do you always have to have the last word.”
“What? I’m just enjoying your competence,” I reply. “It’s attractive… in a sort of professional way.”
The words land heavier than I intend. He stills for half a beat, then resumes slicing as if nothing happened.
“Dangerous game you are playing,” he says. “That sounded nearly like a compliment.”
“But not quite,” I say. “I’d never let you get comfortable.”
He snorts. “Good. Comfort breeds mistakes.”
“And watery sauces,” I add.
He looks up then, eyes bright, sharp, amused rather than offended. “You’re poking the bear.”
“I’m assessing the bear,” I correct. “Important distinction.”
“Well,” he says, tipping tomatoes into the pan, “the bear is perfectly capable of defending himself.”
“Oh, I’ve noticed,” I say.
The sauce begins to come together, scent blooming, the kitchen around us fading slightly as my attention narrows. He tastes. Adjusts. Tastes again.
“No sugar,” he says. “Ever.”
“Not even a pinch.”
“No.”
“What if the tomatoes are acidic.”
“Then you chose the wrong tomatoes.”
I smile. “Stubborn.”
“Principled.”
“Terrifying at dinner parties.”
He grins. “You should see Christmas.”
I picture it without meaning to. Loud. Warm. Full of opinion and food and people who talk over each other with affection. The image settles somewhere inconvenient.
“Is that a threat,” I ask, “or an invitation.”
“Neither,” he says lightly. “A warning.”
He turns back to the pan, stirs once, tastes again, then glances at me sideways. There is a look there. Calculating. Dangerous.
“Open your mouth.”
I blink. “Excuse me.”
“To taste,” he adds, entirely too innocent. “Unless you’ve suddenly developed trust issues.”
“I have always had trust issues,” I say. “Particularly with men who enjoy proving points.”
“I’m not proving a point,” he replies. “I’m feeding you.”
“That sounds worse,” I say.
He dips a spoon, blows on his tomato creation and lets it cool for a beat longer than necessary, then steps closer. Too close. Close enough that I can smell the sauce and him and the faintest hint of soap underneath everything else.
“Open,” he repeats and I swear his voice has gone an octave deeper.
I hold his gaze. “If this ends with me scalded, I will sue you.”
“You’d lose,” he says.
I open my mouth.
He feeds me. Slowly. The spoon pauses just inside my lips for a fraction longer than required. Long enough to be deliberate. Long enough to put all sorts of images into my head.
The kitchen does not exist for half a second.
The sauce is rich and balanced and warm in a way that feels personal. I swallow, eyes still on his.
“Well,” I say, because I refuse to moan in a professional environment.
“Well,” he echoes, smug.
“That was reckless,” I tell him.
“You liked it.”
“I am assessing.”
“You leaned in,” he says. “That’s not assessing.”
“I was avoiding spillage.”
“Of course you were.”
I fold my arms. “You’re doing this to distract me.”
He smiles. Not wide. Not cocky. Something sharper. “Is it working?”
I hate that it might be.
“I still have questions,” I say.
“Ask them.”
“Why feed me?”
He shrugs, deceptively casual. “Because you needed to taste it properly.”
“And.”
“And,” he says, stepping back to his station, “because you keep poking bears and eventually bears poke back.”
I feel heat crawl up my neck that has nothing to do with the stove.
“Now…,” I say. “…that sounded like flirting.”
He looks at me over his shoulder. “Careful,” he replies. “That sounded like hope.”
I snort. “Don’t flatter yourself.”
“You’re the one still standing here,” he says.
Around us, the kitchen hums back into focus. Someone clears their throat. Angela catches my eye from across the room and smirks like she has just watched a tennis match worth paying for.
Tom turns back to the pan, but the tension lingers. Thick. Charged.
To anyone else, it probably looks like two stubborn professionals arguing over sauce.
To me, it feels like something else entirely.
Which is ridiculous.
And I am absolutely not thinking about him feeding me again.
Absolutely not.