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“I didn’t.” Her cheeks flush. “That’s not what happened.”
“Must’ve been some other woman in my kitchen.”
“There probably were plenty.”
My hand stills. Is that jealousy in her voice? “Careful, cupcake. Almost sounds like you care.”
“I don’t.” She picks up a piece of cucumber.
“Right.” I snatch the cucumber from her fingers, popping it into my mouth. “Do you want to chop? Doesn’t involve any actual cooking.”
Naomi nods, washes her hands, and then takes the knife from my hand. She positions herself in front of the cutting board, gripping the handle like she’s about to stab someone. Each slice is sharp and aggressive. The poor cucumber does not stand a chance.
“What did that vegetable do to you?” Though, given our history, maybe I should be worried.
She ignores me, hacking away. The pieces are uneven, some paper-thin, others chunky enough to choke on.
Fuck the no-touching rule.
I move in behind her, my chest flush against her back. Her body starts to turn, but when my hands settle over hers, she stays.
“Gentle,” I guide her movements, slowing the knife’s trajectory. “Like this.”
Her breath hitches. “I know how to cut vegetables.”
“Relax your wrist.” My fingers adjust her grip on the handle.
“Brandon…”
“The secret,” I murmur, lips brushing the shell of her ear, “is to love what you’re making. Food knows when you’re angry or when you’re sad. It tastes different.”
Naomi’s hands tremble beneath mine. “That’s ridiculous.”
“Maybe.” I guide her through another slice, smooth and even. “But Mom was never wrong about food.”
Every muscle in her body locks into place. “You never talk about her.”
“Never came up.” In all our years of whatever-this-is, I never mentioned my mother, huh? I shrug, the movement bringing us closer. “She was good at cooking. Amazing, really. Could’ve been a chef if my father hadn’t… The kitchen was her space.”
Her voice is barely a whisper. “Show me again?”
“Watch closely.”
Together, we slice the vegetables in silence. The tension drains from her shoulders, her movements growing fluid and natural. With each cut, her body softens against mine, following my lead. Her hands are small under mine, soft where I’m calloused, and I can feel her pulse racing at her wrist where my fingers rest.
“When did she teach you?” Naomi asks.
“Every Sunday.” I adjust our grip on the knife. “She’d wake me up at dawn and drag me to the kitchen. Said cooking was meditation.”
“Was it?”
“Nah. Just wanted help with prep work. Clever woman.”
Naomi hums, her head tilting back slightly. “Like mother, like son.”
“You calling me clever, cupcake?”
“I’m calling you manipulative.”