Chapter 20
Andie looks a mess. She’s pulled her hair back into a chaotic bun that’s now frizzing at the edges. Her skin is flushed and blotchy from kneading dough and managing being on camera while cooking for the last couple hours. She’s got marinara on one of her canvas sneakers and flour streaked across the neck of her blouse.
She is without a doubt the most stunning human I’ve ever seen.
I can’t help but smile as she approaches. Her tough exterior cracks for a moment, and she looks me in the eyes as a smile flits across her face too.
Its effect has me unraveling, as if she’s found the loose thread she left in my heart ten years ago and gave it a solid tug.
“Hey.” Her nose wrinkles as she says it, and that thread in my heart loosens again.
“Hi.” I lean on the counter because my knees have suddenly turned to Jell-O. “How was your day?”
“Long.” She gives me a flicker of a smile again. “I won’t bore you with the gruesome details of the charmeuse catastrophe of twenty twenty-four.”
“Was blood drawn?” My eyes fall to her hands.
“No more than usual.” She holds her palms up for me to see.
“I told her to use duppioni silk instead, but she won’t hear it.” Jamie pours a glass of wine and slides it across the counter to me.
“It’s too structured.” Andie shakes her head. “I need this to flow.”
“Are you a designer, too?” I ask Jamie. Andie’s hands are still between us, so I take one in both of mine and knead her palm like I did on our honeymoon. Her small intake of air, followed by a shiver and her eyes sliding closed, is enough for me to know I should keep going.
“Never professionally.” He waves off the idea. “More of a hobby, really.”
“You know, Andie could really use an extra pair of capable hands while she gets ready for Fashion Week,” I suggest.
Her eyes fly open and she glares at me, snatching her hand back.
Watching the interaction, Jamie begs off. “I don’t have that level of skill.”
“I didn’t even know that duppioni silk existed until now. You’ve got more than the standard level of knowledge for producing garments.”
Andie’s glare is relentless, her jaw taut and nostrils beginning to flare.
“It’s nice of you to say that.” Jamie nods. “I’m going to—” He gestures vaguely to the hallway Andie emerged from earlier, then steps away, leaving me to her wrath.
She takes a deep breath. “I can’t believe you just—”
“Found someone who may be able to help you and pointed it out?” I scoop up my wineglass and take a sip.
“Even if I wanted the help”—she crossed her arms over her chest—“I can’t afford to pay him.”
I shrug. “I can.”
Her jaw drops. “I—You—What the hell is wrong with you?”
“I’m trying to help.” I frown into my wineglass.
“Help?” She spits out the word and looks away, working her jaw. When she looks back at me, her eyes are bright with tears threatening to fall. “If you want to help me, maybe you should be here when we’re filming.”
“I was with my mom, you know that.”
“I’m aware.” She sniffs as she walks around the kitchen island to look in the oven. “I had a long day.”
“So did I.”
“And then I had to be here for this cooking class. Alone. While you got to be at home and relax. I’m tired, Kit. If you want to help, then show up so I’m not carrying this”—she waves at the huge studio setup behind us—“all on my own.”
The thread in my heart pulls taut, snagging on the rawness in Andie’s request. It’s not like I don’t know being on camera is taking its toll on her. All of us are beginning to crack under the pressure. It’s why I don’t want cameras invading my mom’s privacy when she needs to be focused on healing.
It’s not fair of me to offer that protection to Mom and leave Andie to do it alone.
I set my wineglass down with a sigh and follow Andie around the island. When I’m close enough, I ask gently, “If I hug you, are you going to stab me with one of those fancy chef’s knives?”
She swipes her palm across her cheek, but I saw the tear before she could hide it. She shakes her head.
I slide my arms around her waist and pull her into me—her back into my chest—and rest my chin on the top of her head. She stiffens for a second, then takes a deep breath and sinks into me. I breathe in, too. She smells like garlic and the soft floral scent in the soap she keeps in the shower.
“That was a lot of words to say you missed me tonight.” I give her a squeeze, so she knows I’m kidding. Mostly.
She digs her elbow into my ribs. When I loosen my grip, she turns in my arms, a smirk on her face. “Believe it or not, I did just fine without you.”
“You sure about that?” I nod to the lumpy pizza in the oven she’s been staring at.
“I wouldn’t laugh too much.” She flicks one of the buttons on my shirt, and it sends a jolt of electricity straight down to my cock. “Your punishment is to taste it when it’s done.”
“Punishment?”
She gives me a devious grin. “I made it just for you.”
“You didn’t poison it, did you?”
She shrugs and lets out a little hum. I feel that in my cock too.
“Poison or no”—I tug on a strand of her hair that’s fallen from her topknot—“I missed you too, sweet potato.”
She wrinkles her nose and shoves me away with her hands on my chest. But she’s smiling. I’ll take it.
After the pizzas are out of the oven, Andie watches as I take a bite of hers. The dough is somehow tough and raw at the same time. The marinara is bitter and acidic. I force a smile as I swallow the bite.
“Delicious,” I lie, giving her a thumbs up.
She snorts. “Liar.”
“The cheese is great,” I insist.
“It’s no secret I’m not a good cook,” she says before taking a sip of wine. “Not the housewife-y type.”
“I don’t need a housewife.” I set the abomination of a pizza slice down and wipe my hands on a napkin. “I just need you, sweet potato.”
She tosses her napkin at me and rolls her eyes.
I snatch her hand off the table and begin to massage it the way I know she likes. “Thanks for not poisoning me.”
“I can’t kill you. Who would give me hand massages?”
“Nice to know you need me for something.” We both smile, suddenly light, and she lets me take care of her hands. “And please, never cook for me again.”