Minutes From Losing Her

Chapter 1

Chapter One

RUBY

“Do you have the fire extinguisher ready?”

As Micah closes the last few feet between us, his gaze meets mine, and his handsome features curve into a smile that does funny things to my stomach.

“I was sure you’d have one on hand,” he continues.

He glances at the stainless steel counter, well-stocked with an assortment of kitchen utensils but nary a fire extinguisher in sight. “After last week, at least.”

“I hadn’t thought about it,” I reply. My lips twitch. “But now that you’re mentioning it, maybe a fire extinguisher would come in handy.”

Micah touches my arm, and a slightly breathless feeling sweeps through me. “Maybe I’ll have better luck this time. Or at least not set the smoke detectors off.”

“Hopefully,” I agree. Flattening my hand against the cool metal of the counter, I lean over to grab the printed recipe I grabbed from the instructor on the way in. Since I already looked at it, I hand it straight to Micah. “What do you think? Can we manage to prepare this one without burning it?”

He takes the paper from my hand. His fingers graze mine, and my heart trips.

Stop it, I scold myself while he scans the recipe. We’re just friends. Well, assuming partnering up for cooking class every week constitutes friendship, which I think it does.

And anyway, I’m happily single. I’m enjoying my uncomplicated, drama-free life. I’m focusing on myself, like my best friend Grace suggested. And dating doesn’t fit into any of that.

“Hmm,” Micah says after he’s scanned the recipe. “The chili seems promising. But the cornbread? I’ll admit, I’m a little concerned about that.”

Then he sets the recipe down and stretches, raising his arms above his head and rolling his neck. His shirt lifts, revealing a strip of bare skin ridged with hard muscle. A dusting of golden-brown hair trails down below his waistband.

I drag my traitorous gaze away from his washboard abs and stare at the recipe sheet with such intensity I’m surprised it doesn’t burst into flames.

Just friends. We’re just friends. And I’m not interested in dating.

But, my libido whines silently, did you see his abs? There have to be at least six of them. Maybe eight? If he took his shirt off, could there even be ten?

Friends don’t count friend’s ab muscles, I counter. And they don’t ogle the other person’s body, either.

At the counter to our right, two women—Elowen and Talia, twenty-something roommates who’ve made no secret that they’re both single, but looking—burst into a flutter of giggles. Out of the corner of my eye, I notice them both staring at Micah’s stomach in open admiration.

Either of them would be thrilled to date Micah, if he asked.

He hasn’t, though. I heard Elowen and Talia bemoaning the fact just before he got here today. “Maybe I should ask him out,” Talia mused. “There’s no rule that women have to wait for the man to do the asking.”

“If he were interested, he’d ask,” Elowen retorted sourly.

“And anyway, I practically asked him out, myself. Last week, I caught him coming into class and asked if he’d been to the new bar down the street.

It was the perfect opening, but he didn’t take me up on it.

Just told me he hadn’t been, and that he’s not really into bars anymore. ”

“Not into bars?” Talia asked with a puzzled frown. “I thought all guys liked bars. What’s not to like about them? Booze, women...”

“I don’t know.” Elowen shrugged. “But a man who looks like that? He can take me anywhere he wants.”

It shouldn’t matter to me that Micah hasn’t responded to their advances. Or that he’s apparently not into the bar scene anymore.

It shouldn’t matter, because Micah and I are just friends. But I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t relieved.

“Well.” Micah lowers his arms, and that tempting bit of skin disappears beneath his shirt. “Chili does sound good. And the cornbread, if I can manage not to ruin it.” His lips quirk as he looks at me. “Are you sure you don’t want a different partner? One with more cooking experience?”

“I don’t want a different partner,” I reply quickly. Ever since Micah and I fell into being partners the first week of our cooking class, seeing him has become one of the high points of my week.

A beat later, insecurity niggles in. “Unless you want a different partner,” I add. “If you’d like to switch things up, I understand.”

His expression shifts to a more serious one. “I’m happy the way things are. I just feel bad that I’m always messing things up—”

“You’re not.” Without thinking, I rest my hand over his. My fingers tingle. My heart stumbles again. “You don’t mess up any more than anyone else.”

“Really?” Micah’s eyebrows shoot up. “I don’t recall the instructor referring to anyone else’s meatballs as deadly weapons. Or setting off the smoke alarm because they forgot to take the biscuits out of the oven.”

I can’t help laughing at the memory of Chef Philip trying to saw his way through one of the meatballs we made last week.

It was so tough and dense, even with one of Chef’s fancy knives, he could barely cut through it.

“I wouldn’t recommend eating them,” he told us, “but on the bright side, you could make a stockpile to use for ammunition.”

Harsh? Maybe. But true.

“We don’t know that the deadly meatballs were your fault,” I say. “We were working together, remember? Maybe I messed them up.”

“You were in charge of the sauce,” Micah replies. “I was taking point on the meatballs. So it was definitely my fault.”

As he glances at our hands, mine still resting atop his, my cheeks heat.

Crap. Friends don’t hold each other’s hands. Just like they’re not supposed to be wondering just how many ab muscles the other has.

Jerking my hand away, I reach for the cutting board and set it in front of us.

After studying the wood grain for a few seconds, I say, “It doesn’t matter whose fault it was.

” Lowering my voice, I add in a conspiratorial tone, “And anyway, I’d much rather have rock-hard meatballs than work with Aidan over there. ”

Micah steals a quick glance at Aidan, who we’ve privately nicknamed Teacher’s Pet.

Aidan is always the one with his hand up first, and he makes sure to arrive before anyone else so he can grab the cook space closest to the instructor.

He loves to ask show-offy questions, often referring to the elaborate dishes he prepared on his own at home.

Questions like, “Chef, when I was making beef Wellington over the weekend, I think I got a little tripped up on the duxelle recipe. I used shiitake mushrooms, but the flavor wasn’t quite right. Should I have used cremini instead?”

When Aidan asked that one, the expression on Micah’s face was priceless. I had to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from bursting out laughing. But seriously. This is an intro to cooking class. For beginners. And Aidan is going on about beef Wellington?

“Maybe he should teach the class,” Micah whispered to me. “Since he’s such an expert and all.”

“Maybe,” I agreed just as quietly, “but if he does, I’m quitting.”

I wouldn’t, really. I value the three hours I spend with Micah every week too much. What started out as an impulsive decision—signing up for a cooking class as an excuse to get out of my apartment—has turned into one of my very favorite activities.

“True,” Micah agrees. He nudges me with his shoulder. Then he shoots me a mischievous smile. “Maybe we should make more of those meatballs and toss them at him whenever he asks a ridiculous question.”

I’m struck by the mental image of me and Micah, hunkered down behind the counter, taking turns darting up to fling a meatball at Aidan before ducking down again. Laughing, I say, “That would definitely make cooking class more interesting.”

“Who knows, maybe I’ll screw up the biscuits, too. And we can add them to our stockpile of munitions.”

“You’re not going to screw them up. This week is going to go well. I can tell.”

Micah regards me for a second; his expression unreadable. His gaze darkens with intensity. “I think it’s started out pretty well already.”

My lungs squeeze.

Just friends, I remind myself. Just friends.

“Anyway,” he continues, “I’ve always loved chili. So I’m hoping it’s edible this time.”

“Oh?” Noticing that Chef Philip is heading towards the instructor’s counter at the front of the room, I move the recipe sheet so it’s positioned between me and Micah.

Micah nods. “Yeah.” An affectionate smile curves his lips. “When I was a kid, our chef would make chili whenever I had a cold. She said it was better than chicken soup. But—”

His mouth snaps shut, and twin spots of pink rise on his cheeks.

“Class,” Chef Philip announces. “We’ll be starting the lesson in two minutes. Please make sure you’ve gotten all your ingredients. And if you need to run to the restroom, now’s the time to do it.”

Micah’s gaze skims across the counter. “Did you get everything already?”

Nodding, I reply, “I did. Since I got here early, I thought I might as well.”

“I meant to get here earlier myself,” he says. “But my last meeting of the day ran a little late. Then I kept hitting delays on my way over here.”

I shake my head in rueful agreement. “Tell me about it. I must have hit every intersection wrong. And then one of the streets I usually take to get here was closed for an accident. So I had to detour around.”

“It’s always something, isn’t it?” Micah grabs a green pepper from the pile of ingredients and rinses it in the sink.

Then he pats it dry with a paper towel and sets it on the cutting board.

“I’ve had to take an alternate route to work all week because there’s a movie shoot going on one block down from mine. ”

“Ooh, what kind of movie?” I’ve lived in Manhattan for close to ten years, and I still get a little thrill whenever I spot a movie or television show being filmed.

Plenty of New Yorkers don’t blink an eye at the sight of a famous actor shooting a scene right out on the street, but it still hasn’t gotten old to me.