Chapter 12 #2
“Oh, you don’t need to worry about Dog-Jason. I think he’s just had a rough day.” But I’m worried about him. I make a mental note to give him extra cuddles after the lesson.
“Right then, I’ll get meself stuck in ’round ’ere, if it’s all the same ta ya, love,” Reggie says.
“Sure, go ahead. What are you going to start with?”
“I’ll just crack on wiv the grip mats on the stairs, love. Once you’re done wiv the stove, I’ll get crackin’ on that verbal timer o’ yours.”
“Sounds good to me.” I turn toward where I hope Jason is still standing. “Shall we?”
“After you.”
I walk to the sink and wash my hands. Much like he did last week, Jason doesn’t rush in or try to do things for me.
He just waits while the water runs over my fingers.
The simple courtesy makes my shoulders loosen, and I didn’t even notice they were tight.
When I step aside, he washes his hands too.
“I see you’ve got everything for today’s meal. We’ll be using a lot of speed and high heat today,” he says, his voice suddenly way too close behind me. “Shall we work on knife skills?”
“Please.”
It comes out breathier than I intend. I need to stop listening to dark romance audiobooks.
He steps behind me, his warmth sliding down my spine before he even touches me. My breath stutters. When last was a man this close? My body answers before my brain does—too long. Far, far too long.
“Curl your fingers,” he murmurs, guiding my hand. “The blade should touch your knuckles, not your fingertips.”
His hand rests lightly on mine.
My breath catches like someone tugged it out of my chest. God. My body remembers this—this nearness, this quiet male gravity drawing me in. It remembers what it feels like to be wanted, even though he’s not… wanting. He’s teaching. Just teaching.
Right?
Chop. Chop. Chop.
The sound vibrates through the cutting board, through my arm, through the space between us.
“Just like that,” he says softly.
I’m melting. I’m going to be a little puddle on the floor any moment now. His breath skates along the back of my neck, soft as a fingertip. Maybe I should have worn my hair down today, to hide how exposed the back of my neck feels. Or maybe not, because God help me, this feels good.
So damn good.
This continues while we chop the rest of the veggies. Well, Human-Jason does, I pretty much just stand there begging my knees not to buckle and telling myself this isn’t Ghost and I’m not Demi Moore. I’m overheating, and we aren't even near the stove yet. I think I should get something to drink.
I tilt my head back. “Should we open that wine?”
His breath stutters. I’m so damn close I can feel it on my lips. Excellent Violet.
He clears his throat. “Good idea.” There’s a crack at the end of his words.
Great! Way to make things awkward.
While I pour the wine, Jason stands farther away from me, so I can no longer feel the heat pulsing off me. It feels like a loss, but I don’t blame the guy. This isn’t Kissing 101, Violet.
“Ready to up the heat?”
“Excuse me?” My turn to croak.
“The…uh, cooking part. On the stove?”
“Oh…uh…yeah, definitely.”
At the stove, he stands behind me again, and if my brain isn’t stuck in some fantasy reel instead of reality, it feels like he’s even closer. So close I can feel his cellphone digging into my back. If that is his cellphone.
Stop it, Violet.
He slides his hand down my arm until he reaches my wrist. I swear he’s method-cooking, because he traces the length of my arm like he’s blind and the goosebumps that have erupted all over my skin is braille.
“We’re not stirring this,” he says, voice low and wicked. “We’re flipping it.”
Oh honey… if he flips me like that pan, we’re both in trouble.
“You feel the difference?” he asks.
“Hmmm?”
There’s that chuckle again, low and warm, a little smug. “Flipping versus stirring.”
Well, flip me sideways. I don’t feel anything other than the heat spreading between us like wildfire.
“Uh… yes,” I whisper. “It’s… fun.”
He smiles—I can hear it. Worse, I can feel it, like warmth blooming under my skin, spreading in places he has absolutely no business influencing.
The food is sizzling in the pan, but that’s not the only thing. My whole body is starting to sizzle. Damn. I think it’s time for some alone time with BOB—my battery-operated boyfriend—who has never judged me, never stood too close, and never whispered about flipping versus stirring in that voice.
I’m just about to melt straight into him when he steps back.
“And that’s a wrap. Cashew chicken for two… three if you want to give some to Reggie.”
Jason whines from the doorway—a strange sound, not his usual soft, questioning note. More… restless. Off. Almost like he’s irritated or queasy, or maybe just done with whatever this slow-burn cooking show we’re performing is.
“Sure,” I say, stirring the pan to ground myself. “There seems to be plenty here. None for you though, Jason. You don’t sound like yourself, buddy.”
He gives another noise—something between a huff and a growl—and yeah… that’s not tummy trouble. That’s a mood.
I dish a generous portion into a container for Reggie while Jason slides plates onto the table. The smell is heavenly—warm soy, ginger, toasted cashews—and for once I feel like a real adult who hasn’t merely survived a grocery store but conquered it.
“Do you think Reggie will enjoy this?” I ask, snapping the lid closed.
“He’ll eat anything that doesn’t run faster than him,” Jason says, amused.
I laugh and follow him to the table. Jason pulls out a chair for me—of course he does—and the moment I sit, the heat from the stove fades enough that I can finally smell him again. Cedar, smoke, something darker and warm that curls low in my belly.
Focus, Violet. Food. Eating. Chewing. Not imagining things.
We take the first bites together.
“Oh my god,” I breathe. “This is… actually good.”
“You made it,” he says.
We made it, but I don’t say that. I’m too distracted by the tiny hum he makes after his first bite. The sound sits indecently close to a groan.
I nearly drop my fork.
Before I can spiral into inappropriate mental territory, footsteps thump down the hallway.
“Smells brilliant in ’ere,” Reggie calls, strolling into the kitchen like he owns the place. “Hope you didn’t forget your ol’ mate.”
I lift the container. “Yours is right here.”
“Aye, you’re a star, love.” Something clinks—tools, maybe? “Now, let me have a look-see at this stove o’ yours. Need ta set up that full vocal timer we talked about.”
I freeze, fork halfway to my mouth. “Full vocal timer?”
“Yeah,” Reggie says, poking something metal against the stovetop. “Connects ta your phone, reads yer settings out loud, gives verbal alerts every minute or what have ya. But…” He taps something and huffs. “This model’s a dinosaur. No upgrade slot.”
Jason clears his throat. “It’s… older, yeah.”
“Oi, older?” Reggie laughs. “This thing’s practically Victorian.”
“Okay, rude,” I say, nudging my fork in his direction. “But fine. If it can’t be upgraded, I’ll just… buy a new stove.”
Silence.
A long one.
Like… really long.
I blink. “What?”
Jason shifts in his seat. Even Dog-Jason—who is now lying under the table—goes oddly still.
Reggie scratches his jaw—I can hear the scrape of stubble. “You’ll… buy a new stove?”
“Yes?”
Why does that sound like an SAT question?
Reggie whistles low. “Well. Right then. I’ll, uh… draw up a list o’ good models.”
Jason doesn’t say anything.
Neither does Dog-Jason.
I stab another bite of chicken. “Why is everyone acting like I just announced I’m buying a small island?”
Jason coughs lightly. “You just… said it so casually.”
“Should I have said it dramatically? Held a candle up to the sky while declaring my love for appliance shopping?”
He laughs but there’s something tight in it.
Reggie clears his throat. “Nothin’ wrong with a bit of convenience, love. Jus’ caught us off guard, is all.”
“Why?”
But the question hangs there, unanswered.
Dog-Jason shifts under the table and gives a soft, almost warning whine.
And I get the weirdest feeling I’m missing something.
Dinner disappears faster than I expect. Maybe because I’m starving, maybe because Jason keeps making these low, involuntary noises every time he tastes something. Little hums. Little groans. Tiny earthquakes under my skin.
By the time we’re done, Reggie has vanished back into the hallway, muttering excitedly about “proper voice modules,” leaving me and Jason alone in the kitchen.
I start cleaning up while Human-Jason labels bottles and jars. With actual Braille.
“You know Braille?” I ask, trying not to sound as awed as I feel.
I hear his shrug, like he just said he knows how to boil water. “Part of the program. We all learn.”
Of course he does. Of course he makes accessibility look effortless. Of course I melt a little.
Dog-Jason whines from beneath the table—a strange, throaty sound that doesn’t match his usual “feed me, mortal” enthusiasm.
“You still sound weird, buddy,” I murmur, bending to feed him a piece of plain chicken. My fingers brush his fur and—okay, that’s new. Coarser? Warmer? More electric?
“Mm,” I frown. “You need a bath. Definitely. You feel… different.”
He lets out another low noise, and he almost sounds offended.
“Don’t look at me like that. Hygiene is love.”
I stand, reach for my wine, and take a sip. The rim bumps against my lip, and the wine dribbles straight down my chin.
“Smooth, Violet,” I mutter, wiping at it with the back of my hand. “Very sophisticated. Truly a masterclass in elegance.”
Jason’s soft laugh warms my neck.
Before I can reach for a napkin to wipe up the rest of the spill, his thumb is there, catching the drop on my skin.
I freeze.
His hand is warm, his touch slow as he wipes the drop from my chin, then, God help me, lets his thumb glide across my bottom lip. Just a brush. Barely a whisper of pressure.
My breath stumbles out of me.
His does too.
He leans closer, the space between us shrinking, folding, collapsing around the heat of him.
I part my lips.
He inhales softly.
His thumb lingers like he’s memorizing the shape of me.
We’re one breath away.
One heartbeat.
One tiny push from…
Dog-Jason barks so loud, my ears ring.
I jerk back, and Human-Jason bumps the table.
“Uh, he’s hungry,” I say.
“Yep. Yep, totally, he sure is,” Human-Jason sputters. “We should—uh—we should end here.”
“Already?”
“Yes! I mean, yeah. But fried chicken next week?”
“Sure.”
“Next week,” he repeats, his voice sounding farther away.
“Next week,” I echo.
And then he’s gone.
I sit there, fingers still tingling where his touched mine, trying to slow my racing heart.