Page 45 of Pack Choice

“I can make myself something.”

“You spend all day trailing after me. You’ve fetched me breakfast twice. It’s the least I can do.”

I lead him through to the kitchen, finding my sister-in-law already in there, perched on a stool, head buried in yet another parenting book, a jar of extra-large pickles on the countertop in front of her.

She looks up when we enter, her eyebrows twitching slightly when she sees my hand gripping Ford’s very large bicep. I release it immediately.

“Hi, Bea,” I say, avoiding her eyes as I stroll to the fridge. Ford adopts his usual military stance by the door. “This is Ford. Ford, this is Bea.”

He nods at her.

“You’re Molly’s new protection officer?”

“I am.”

From the corner of my eyes, I can see a smile hovering on her lips.

“I’m just getting Ford a snack while he waits for me. Would you like one too?”

Bea shakes her head and points to her pickles. “Ahh the date,” she says.

“It’s not a date,” I tell her.

“You’re accompanying Molly on this date?” Bea asks Ford, ignoring me.

“Yes. Don’t worry, Ma’am, I’ll be keeping a close eye on her.”

“Oh, I’m sure you will,” Bea mutters, turning back to her book and clearly pretending to disappear.

I rifle through the fridge. “What would you like, Ford? I could make you a sandwich. Ham, cheese, tuna.” He doesn’t answer and when I peer over my shoulder this time, I catch him ogling my ass. He darts his gaze away. Bea hums under her breath. A tune I think sounds suspiciously like ‘Let’s Get It On’.

“Tuna, please.”

I grab butter, mayo, lettuce and tomato out of the fridge. Then fetch a can of tuna out of the cupboard and wrestle with the pin. It snaps off in my hand and I curse, searching for the can opener, all the while aware that both Bea and Ford are watching me. The can opener is about as useless as the pull was and after a few minutes of failing to turn the wheel, Ford steps over.

“I can do that for you,” he tells me.

“It’s fine, I can do it,” I say, my tongue caught between my teeth.

His hands close on mine, making my breath hitch at the electricity of his touch, and gently he takes the can from my hands, opening the thing in two easy turns. He passes it back to me.

“Can I help with anything else?”

I gulp, trying not to think about that ache between my legs.

“No,” I say, sternly, my voice a little high, “I’m making it for you.”

I glance over at Bea, who’s watching us above the top of her book.

I mix the tuna and mayo together, butter two slices of bread, followed by the tuna mix, then add some lettuce leaves and three slices of tomato. I spread it onto a plate, then hesitate.

“How do you want it?” Bea smothers a snort with a cough. I scowl at her. “Rectangles or triangles?”

“Triangles?” he says frowning. “Why would anyone choose triangles?”

“Because they make the sandwich taste better,” I say, cutting the bread from corner to corner before holding it out to Ford. He examines the sandwich with a look that tells me he thinks I’m mad, then holds out his hand to take the plate, lifting his gaze at the same time.

For a moment, we stand there, both clutching the plate, his expression no longer sulky but something hotter and I release my hand as if I’ve been scorched. Which maybe I have. I peer down at my finger to check they aren’t smoking. Then I mutter something about needing to get ready before those damn butterflies can start misbehaving again.