Chapter Thirteen
Liz stepped in through the mudroom to go find her mother, thinking she must be in the kitchen since all the lights were blazing. She looked through the door and stopped.
The kitchen was a mess, and it was most definitely not her mom.
Jake finished expertly slicing what looked to be an onion, then slid it into a bowl with the edge of his knife, big shoulders moving, fluid and practiced.
She stood a moment more, catching the smooth jazz flowing over the room from the tiny portable speaker now sitting above the sink, making the entire space feel classy.
Until Jake had arrived, Liz had normally avoided the expansive kitchen after dark. The countertops and shining metal appliances were cold and unwelcoming. But right now, warmth emanated, beckoning her. She noticed an expensive knife set and a laptop open with music queued.
She was drawn in, but at the same time, didn’t want to disturb the scene. He was obviously in his element, and even though she liked watching him like this, just as she had that first night he’d been here, she felt like she was intruding.
So she leaned on the door frame and took him in, waiting for a moment to sneak through into the house.
His shirtsleeves were rolled up tight at his elbow, and he’d tied a crisp white chef’s apron high on his waist. His hair was finger-combed messy, and the serious way his eyes followed his hands was completely, utterly sexy.
Maybe she should go in and say hello. She couldn’t really deny any longer that there was this attraction she felt for him that was entirely irrational; that it was right there under the surface, prodding her when she least wanted it to.
Maybe it was the painkillers she’d taken or the fact that she was deliriously overtired that dissolved her reluctance, but her stomach fluttered, and little sparks ran along her body when he bent into the fridge and pulled out more vegetables.
The last straw that drew her in to lean on the island was when he started humming to the music, deep and smooth.
His jaw flexed as he saw her, and she froze midway onto one of the island stools, caught like a deer in the headlights.
“Hey,” he said and set his tools down, wiping his hands on his apron and turning to face her.
She gingerly ran her fingers down her nose, chastened now that he was looking at her.
She was a mess. She’d had a shower, looked at the blossoming black eyes in the mirror, the white tape an angry stripe across her face.
Reminded of Jake and the ping-pong of a day they’d had, she realized she’d lashed out once again, storming away from him the moment they’d driven into the garage.
She owed him another apology, and her original intent was to find her mom to ask how in hell she should.
Well, here he is, just do it, she thought, and squared her shoulders.
“Hi,” she replied. “I don’t want to mess with your flow, but I—”
“How are you feeling?” he asked, interrupting her.
“I—” she started again, determined to get it out. “I’m fine. Look. I’m sorry for my mood this evening. Again.”
He blinked and pulled a pepper from the bag of vegetables beside him.
He paused as he picked up the knife. She could see his gears turning, and hoped he wouldn’t rebuff her.
It was bad enough he’d seen her storm off in a huff more than once.
She hated that part of her temper. She wanted him to like her, and her behavior was not helping.
“Have you eaten?” he asked.
“No,” she said. He was back to being nice, giving. Truly, she’d been an ass today.
“Come help me cook.”
She eyeballed his knife, hesitant. Cook?
He beckoned her around the counter and then handed her the pepper and the knife. “Can you slice a few of these into thin strips? I’ll start the tortilla.”
She looked down at the pepper, the green skin shiny in the kitchen lighting. She set it on the cutting board and then tilted the massive knife in her hand, the blade polished to a sheen. For the first time in her life, she was intimidated about slicing vegetables.
“It’s just a pepper, Liz. It isn’t poison. You do eat vegetables from time to time, right? It isn’t all beef and bread?” he said, humor evident in his voice. She looked at him, twisting her lips, and sighed.
“Ha-ha. Very funny. No, it’s just I’ve never cut a pepper with such a massive knife. How—”
Before she could finish her sentence, he slid up behind her, grabbed her hands, and gently fixed her grip on the knife.
His other hand adjusted her grip on the pepper like he’d done it a thousand times.
The heat from his body instantly flooded hers and she leaned back, letting her shoulders touch his broad, firm chest. He took her cue, and pulled himself closer, their bodies touching against the counter.
Holy hell, that felt good. All thoughts of her bruised face and pride faded to nothing.
“Now, if you hold the pepper this way and slice it sideways first, you can pull out the seeds. Use the back of the knife to the front, slice down, and away,” he rumbled in her ear, sending shockwaves down and through her stomach in time with the knife.
His forearms tensed as he moved her hands for her, and she followed the motion, letting him lead, her stomach fluttering again.
The blade slid through the pepper with a fresh crunch, and the two sides fell away from each other.
He carefully sliced one side into slivers, and she relaxed her muscles as his arms brushed hers, the movement of his body behind her rendering her breathless until he had finished.
“You teach a lot of people how to cut vegetables like this?” she asked weakly, the grip he had on her knife hand softening as he finished.
He cleared his throat and chuckled low in her ear. “A few, yes. Knife skills are one of the most important kitchen tools you can have.”
She slid her hands out of his grip and peeled the seed core out of the other half of the pepper, conscious of his body still behind her He didn’t move away, his hands traveling up her arms, his head dipping toward the crook of her neck, a soft, rumbling groan meeting her ear. If he kept going . . .
She turned, her back pressing into the edge of the counter. Pepper in her hand, she looked up at him with intent, the instinct to kiss him so strong she might not be able to stop if—
The heat in his eyes surprised her as he braced his hands on the counter on either side of her, caging her in.
Well, now. That changed her thoughts on the matter completely.
Her eyes darted to his lips, then back to his eyes, and another deep groan made its way from his chest. That was incredibly hot.
“Any other tips?” she asked, quirking an eyebrow, emboldened by how close he was and the hungry way he was taking her in. If she was going to explore this, she might as well go whole hog.
But as she leaned toward him, he cleared his throat, his hands flexing as he pulled them away. “I think you have it.”
A wave of disappointment hit her as he turned to a cupboard, pulling out the flour canister. She finished cutting the pepper, then sliced another one from the bag beside her, before she spoke. That should have ended with them kissing. She wanted it to end with him kissing her, damn it.
“So, you make tortillas?” she finally said, wanting to break the awkward silence that was punctuated by the crunch of her knife and the ting of utensils hitting the side of his metal mixing bowl as he added various ingredients.
He hummed an uh-huh and turned his head to her as he tipped water and lard into the mixture, not even measuring.
“Once you learn to make tortillas, you’ll never, ever go back to store bought. I guarantee it. Doesn’t Rosy make her own?” he said.
“No, at least I don’t think so. She doesn’t do much outside dinner rolls or white bread.
Brett liked meat and potatoes, simple food.
Well-done steak—which is a crime, by the way—veggies boiled to mush.
Mom ate like he did. I sometimes wonder how she stood it, the same thing day in and day out, the lack of flavors. ”
His hands dipped into the bowl, his biceps straining through the fabric of his shirt as he kneaded the mixture. She decided that the way he moved could not be more of a turn-on, and picked up a piece of pepper, chewing on it as she tamped down on the arousal flaring low in her belly.
“Love will do that,” he replied. “I’m sure it drove her nuts, but it was what he liked, so she compromised. She had her own things to balance it.”
“I doubt it was love. I’m not sure it was that kind of marriage,” she said sadly, and turned, slicing the rest of the last pepper.
She pushed the slivers into a pile and set the knife down, mulling over what she’d just said.
Her mother had said as much, hadn’t she?
Liz’s heart hurt, thinking about how her mother deserved to be happy and taken care of, and how this whole situation had been the opposite.
“I don’t know much about my dad . . . Brett. Your mom mentioned some stuff tonight, but other than that, he’s just a person I never met.”
“I can tell you a bit, if you like,” she offered, and rested a hip on the counter as he rolled dough balls between his palms then set them in a perfectly straight line on a tray.
He stopped, his flour-covered fingers curling over the edge of the counter. “I don’t know. I get overwhelmed by this house, his car, the office—”
His shoulders bunched up, and she stepped over to him and impulsively placed a hand on his back.
His body heat tightened her and she almost pulled away, but as she stood there with him, pressing her palm into the taut muscles, his shoulders lowered.
He sighed and hung his head, then ran his hand through his hair at the back of his head, leaving flour in its wake.
A realization hit her as he admitted to being overwhelmed.
How could she have not thought of that? He was thrown into his father’s home, with his family, knowing nothing of the man, and they expected .
. . well, what, from him? To assimilate in three seconds flat?
Brady had figured it out already, and she’d only half listened to him.
She felt guilty all over again for the way she’d behaved today, and rubbed the spot between his shoulder blades, restless at the thought of not having seen his stress.
“I never even thought about how it would feel to come into his home, be surrounded by his things, and not end up a little messed up,” she said.
“It hasn’t been easy,” he replied, his voice rough.
He turned to her, and she could see the pain in his eyes threatening to come out.
She wasn’t sure if it would spill like Tanner, in anger and gruffness, or like Brady, with quiet.
He was so much like Tanner that she backed up a step, expecting hardness to take over, like it had in the diner.
She was hoping her offer was an olive branch in their awkward back-and-forth—most of which was her fault.
It might also cool her jets, thinking of something other than him pressing her against the counter and kissing her senseless.
“I think the man is a different thing than all this,” she said, gesturing around her. “I can try to tell you about who he was, not what he was, if that helps.”
“I’d like that.” He cracked his neck and hid the pain with what looked to be careful practice, and then smiled at her. “Would you like to learn how to press and cook tortillas? I added parmesan, they’ll taste amazing.”
She let out a soft breath of relief, the truce accepted. “You bet.”