Chapter Five #3
This is Gale’s actual life. He uses family recipes. He keeps plants alive. He eats fruit, for crying out loud. I let out a
snort. Right. Because he’s just a person. A stupidly attractive, surprisingly domestic person. But still. This is fine. Just
two old friends—kinda—having dinner.
No big deal.
No ulterior motives detected.
“Consider this my peace offering for the pancake fiasco.” He returns with elegant stemware and a bottle of rosé, its glass
surface clouded with condensation. A playful glint lights his eyes as he continues, “And there’s chili in the freezer. Not
to brag, but it’s legendary.”
He uncorks the bottle and begins pouring. “Want to know the secret ingredient in making this wine pop? Jalapeno.” His gaze
catches mine with that electric spark that makes my heart stutter. “Adds some heat—if you’re brave enough.”
I hold his stare, savoring the tension. “I’ve never been afraid of a little spice.”
“Good to know.” The wine sloshes over the rim of my glass, splashing across the counter and his hand. “Damn—” He sets down
the bottle with a thunk and grabs for a towel. A blush creeps up his neck as he wipes at the spill, suddenly unable to meet
my eyes. “I swear I’m usually more coordinated . . .”
“No worries.” I fight back a smile, oddly pleased to see him flustered. “Need a hand?”
“I’ve got it. Just sit back.” He grabs a jalapeno and deftly slices it into delicate rings. “Tonight, you’re my guest.” He drops a slice into each glass and slides one toward me.
I watch the bubbles dance around the pepper before raising my glass. “Well, I do enjoy being pampered.”
His glass clinks against mine, his lips curving into that knowing half smile. “Just wait until you try my honey pepper cornbread.”
He moves through the kitchen with easy confidence, hefting the Le Creuset onto the stove and setting the chili to warm. “Think
I’ll do an avocado cucumber salad too.”
As he turns to the prep, I find myself transfixed for the next twenty minutes. The way he slices and dices the veggies and
whips up a lime-cilantro dressing from scratch before his forearms flex while mixing the thick yellow cornbread batter, sleeves
rolled carefully to his elbows. The slight furrow in his brow as he measures honey and dices the rest of the jalapeno. When
he bends to slide the skillet into the oven, I can’t help but admire the broad sweep of his shoulders. He turns back to stir
the bubbling chili with a wooden spoon, and I quickly look away—though the image lingers.
“About E.M.M.A.,” I say, steering us back to safer ground.
“Like I mentioned—I’m in for the beta testing.”
“What changed your mind?”
His eyes drift to my lips and stay there. “Let’s say I’m seeing things in a new light.”
“If we do this,” I say carefully, “there are conditions. No backing out this time. No repeats of before. Do you know how that
made me look? This is your last chance, Gale. I need your word.”
“You have it. I won’t disappoint you again.”
The air hums between us. I register every detail—the heat of him nearby, his eyes meeting mine with an intensity that makes
even my fingertips tingle.
“Here.” He dips his spoon in a pot and offers the chili to me. “Taste this and tell me if it needs anything.”
I take it, our fingers brushing. The contact sends a jolt through my body. I take a taste, closing my eyes to savor the flavors.
“Well?” Gale asks, his voice low and expectant.
I open my eyes to find him watching me intently. “Really good,” I admit.
“You sound surprised.” He smirks, taking a step closer.
“I am,” I counter, holding his gaze, not backing down. “Don’t let it go to your head.”
Suddenly, Gale’s foot catches on the edge of a floor mat. He stumbles forward, arms flailing. I reach out instinctively to
steady him, but the momentum is too much and he is so much bigger than me. We both go crashing against the kitchen island.
Our lips smash together, accidental, clumsy, and electric. For a split second, neither of us moves. I can feel the warmth
of his breath, the softness of his lips against mine. My heart thunders so hard that he must be able to hear it.
Then, as quickly as it happened, it’s over. Gale jerks his head back. “Fuck. Harriet. I . . . I’m so sorry,” he stammers,
not moving from his position, pinning me against the island. “I didn’t mean to—”
“Gale.” My voice is barely audible over the sound of my common sense packing its bags and heading for the door.
We face each other in charged silence, every breath weighted with possibility. His hands grip the counter on either side of
me, not touching me but close enough that I feel trapped in the best possible way. The air crackles between us—or maybe that’s
static from my sweater, though honestly, my brain’s too scrambled to remember how electricity works when he’s looking at me
like that.
When his eyes drop to my lips again, I see the silent question there, waiting for me to call this play.
And it finally clicks why Pandora couldn’t resist opening the box—sometimes the most dangerous temptations feel an awful lot like destiny.
I’m facing a pivotal decision: keep my carefully constructed walls intact or demolish them completely.
Here in his kitchen, caught between my sensible brain and the part of me that wants to climb Gale like a tree, I make my choice.