Page 51

“Grab that tomato,” her voice is husky and she nods to it on the counter. “Be gentle and dice it. Try not to accidentally turn it to mush,” she says as she hands me the cutting board again.

My breath quickens and I step in beside her, close enough to feel the warmth radiating from her body. She smells like lime and honey and something sharper—like a memory. Like her skin on mine in the darkness, six years ago, before either of us knew where that moment would lead us. Before Matteo.

Our arms brush and she sucks in a sharp breath, the sound catching in her throat.

“Am I doing it right?” I ask, slicing the tomato, aware of her watching.Acutely aware.

Andi steps in closer, her body angling so she’s positioned behind me. “You’re pressing down too hard,” she explains, then her hand covers mine. “Let the knife do the work.”

Her voice drops lower and becomes breathier. Her palms are warm against the back of my hand and I fall still.

“Am I doing it right now?” I murmur, my breaths growing shallow.

Andi’s silent for a moment and the tension stretches between us. Her hand doesn’t leave mine, neither of us moving, the air between heavy with tension and something messier—regret, maybe. Orwant.

Her fingers slide away. “You’re getting better.”

She turns back to the stove but my eyes are glued to her, watching the flush creep up her neck. She pulls her bottom lip between her teeth, biting down as she stirs the meat.

I step behind her again, too close now. She doesn’t move; her body stills, her slender throat bobs as she swallows hard.

“This feels familiar,” I say quietly, my mouth close to her ear, my voice but a whisper. “Us...like this.”

Her spatula slows in the pan, steam rising between us as the silence stretches again. The heat radiates from the stove and from her—two different kinds, one making it incredibly hard to think straight.

“This isn’t something we’ve ever done before.”

She’s right. We’ve never cooked together. We’ve never stood like this in the kitchen, bodies close with the heat growing and history hanging in the air.

This feels much more intimate than that night we had together. Slower, closer, more tantalizing.

“No, it isn’t. We’ve done a lot ofdifferentthings together though.”

She reaches forward and turns off the burners. “Don’t start something you can’t finish, Ford.”

“I’m just learning how to make tacos,” I tell her, my voice husky and low. “Mostly.”

Her breathing hitches, the sound subtle but I don’t miss it.

She turns her head slightly, just enough for me to see the smile dancing across her lips. “Then stop standing so close.”

I don’t move.

“Then tell me to move.”

She doesn't.

The silence stretches, the tension between us rivaling a forest fire that could burn down everything in its path.

Without a word, she lifts the skillet and holds it out behind her, her fingers wrapped around the handle. I reach around and take it from her. Our fingertips brush, slow and unhurried, they linger for a second longer than they have to.

“The table’s over there,” she murmurs, still not turning around.

My voice is just as quiet as hers. “I know.”

I turn away from her and carry the heat away with me—in the skillet, in my fingertips, and in the space she didn’t ask me to leave.

“Well, I think it’s safe to say that your taco lesson was a success,” Andi smiles at me from where she sits on the back patio as I step back outside. Matteo fell asleep on the outdoor sectional a half an hour ago. I just carried him into his bed and he didn’t stir awake, most likely exhausted from the long day we all had.