Page 68 of Guarding Grace

I didn’t have it in me to say no, so I clinked my glass to hers. “Friends.” I sipped. It was lovers I had to avoid.

“Put me to work, chef. I’d love to cook chicken marsala with you.”

The pendulum had swung to teamwork, and I liked it. “First, we need a gallon-sized plastic bag and cassava flour. It’s in the pantry.”

“Cassava?”

“I make it gluten-free.” I trimmed the chicken and pounded the pieces thin on the cutting board one at a time. Then she shook them in the plastic bag, coating them in the flour and spices.

“We’ll need two-thirds of a cup of chicken broth—there’s concentrate in the door of the fridge—and the same amount of yogurt and marsala wine.”

She cocked her head. “I thought it was made with a cream sauce?”

As she turned away, I caught that profile view that always turned me on. “I don’t have cream, and yogurt is healthier.”

“I didn’t picture you as a health nut.”

That was only one of a long list of things she didn’t know about me.

I got my head back in the game in front of the stove. After adjusting the temperature and adding oil to the pan, I turned from the stove. “What’s wrong with eating healthy?”

She worried her bottom lip. “Nothing. You’ve been in my life a long time, but I guess it shows how little I really know about you.”

I shrugged as I added the first pieces of chicken to the pan and slid the splatter shield into place. Sharing personal things with her was counterproductive to my goal of keeping distance between us.

While I seared the meat in the pan, she sliced the mushrooms, onion, and garlic.

After I’d flipped the meat to brown on the other side, she slid up behind me. “What’s next?” Her tit rubbed seductively against my arm as she leaned in to check the pan.

I shifted away from the temptation of contact with her. “When the meatfinishes, we’ll put it aside and sauté the dry ingredients before adding the broth, wine, yogurt, and chicken.”

She added a hand on my hip. “How long does it need to simmer?”

I removed her hand. “Long enough to reduce a little.”

She pulled away to clean up the island. “When is Zane coming over?”

“He’s not. Why?”

“You don’t seem to want to have me around.”

I held back my growl at the idea of Zane here with us. “I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to.”

“I thought we were cooking.”

My phone rang before she could react to that.

“What’s up, Zane?” I answered.

“We have a problem.”

I backed away from the stove. “Which is?”

“They had the apartment staked out all right, including some bozo in her hallway.”

“So you couldn’t go in?” I guessed.