Page 11 of When You’re Broken (Finn Wright #11)

Finn fiddled with the old gas stove’s knobs, his lips quirking in an anxious half-smile as he crouched to peer into the tiny, ill-lit oven.

The cottage in Great Amwell was charming in many respects—wooden beams across the low ceilings, wide-plank floors that creaked in comforting ways, and a welcoming fireplace—but the kitchen left a lot to be desired.

The stove’s pilot light sputtered faintly.

He jiggled the knob, hoping it would catch properly.

A glance at his watch told him it was already past ten.

Late for dinner by most people’s standards, but it was the earliest they could manage after the day’s chaos.

He shut the oven door and moved to the narrow counter, where he’d been attempting to saute vegetables in a pan.

The hiss of oil mixing with onions and peppers reminded him of sizzling days spent in a distant past, back in Florida, when he’d first learned to cook so he could feed himself in the FBI dorms. Now, here he was, in a small English cottage, trying to salvage a romantic meal for two.

He heard footsteps from the living room.

Amelia must be finishing checking her phone or the house’s door locks.

Two patrol cars stationed outside, courtesy of Rob, gave them some measure of safety from Wendell Reed’s meddling.

Still, he sensed her nerves bristling every time a branch tapped the window or the wind gusted along the cottage walls.

“Everything all right in there?” Amelia’s voice floated from the door, an undercurrent of concern or maybe curiosity.

“Yeah,” Finn called, swirling the pan so the onions wouldn’t burn. “Just about to get dinner finished in earnest. Another few minutes, I promise.”

He forced a wry grin at the uncooperative stovetop flame.

The sizzle turned a bit sharper, and he quickly yanked the handle to angle it away from the direct heat.

While trying to nudge the vegetables around, the oil popped violently, spitting a few droplets at his wrist. He hissed in mild annoyance, stepping back. Need to be more careful, Finn.

The savory smell of onions mingled with the faint aroma of thyme he’d sprinkled in. He wanted it to smell appetizing, show Amelia that they could have a hint of normalcy in the midst of all the tension. With a careful push, he slid the pan to a cooler part of the burner, letting the hiss subside.

Amelia stepped in, her brow arched. She’d changed out of her detective attire—no crisp blouse or official ID at her belt.

Instead, she wore a comfortable sweater with jeans, hair pinned loosely at the nape of her neck.

Finn noticed a small frown of concern on her lips.

“Are you sure you don’t want me to help? You’ve been in here for ages.”

He mustered a confident grin. “Nah, I’ve got it under control. It’s just—”

Suddenly, he grabbed the pan’s handle without a potholder. The metal scorched his palm. He dropped it with a clatter, swallowing a yelp as pain shot through his hand. “Ah—damn it!”

Amelia’s eyes widened. She rushed forward, hooking an arm under his and tugging him away from the stove. “Finn, you idiot,” she said, voice brimming with concern beneath a mild scolding tone. “Are you trying to end up in A&E?”

He rubbed his stinging palm, teeth gritted. “I forgot the handle was hot,” he muttered. “The oven mitt’s on the other side.” He cursed inwardly at the wave of pain.

“Put that hand under cold water, now,” she said firmly, guiding him to the small sink. She flicked the handle, letting a stream of water flow. “Let me see.”

He reluctantly held out his reddened palm. Amelia angled it under the tap, her fingers pressing gently on his wrist. The chill shocked the burn, but after a second, relief replaced the initial sting. He exhaled, shoulders slumping. “Sorry,” he murmured. “So much for me being the hero cook.”

Amelia half-laughed, though it held a sympathetic ring. “Don’t worry. I’ve done worse. Once, I grabbed a cookie sheet that had been in the oven for half an hour. I spent the rest of that day cursing everything in sight.”

He managed a grin, looking down at her face. The water continued rushing, splashing around his hand. “Should be all right,” he said, flexing his fingers gingerly. “I think it’s just a mild burn.”

She reached for a clean tea towel, patted his hand dry, then stepped closer—just enough for him to see the concern in her dark eyes. “Try not to injure yourself for my sake, okay?”

He let out a short laugh. “Lately, seems like whenever I try to do something for us, there’s a calamity.”

She set the towel aside, and a brief hush fell.

Both seemed aware of how her body brushed his side, the closeness unspoken but comforting.

He gently rested his good hand against her waist. She tilted her head, meeting his gaze.

The kitchen’s overhead light lent a softness to her features, the tension from the day’s events momentarily easing.

“You know,” he said quietly, “I think I’d trade a burn or two if it means you can have a decent meal tonight, away from all the stress.”

Amelia’s lips twitched upward. “That’s sweet, but I prefer to keep you in one piece.

” Then, with a lingering look, she leaned in.

Their foreheads nearly touched. He could feel her breath, and before either said more, she tilted her face up.

He inclined his head, and their lips met in a gentle, tentative kiss that steadily deepened, the day’s anxieties melting for a precious few seconds.

The scent of thyme and onions lingered in the background, and her sweater felt warm under his palm.

When they parted, Amelia stepped back, cheeks flushed.

“Thank you,” she whispered, though he wasn’t entirely sure for what—maybe for the attempt at normalcy, or for the affection that reminded them there was more to life than chasing criminals.

Finn swallowed, then forced a grin. “Let’s get back to dinner. My vegetables might be going from ‘perfectly sauteed’ to ‘charcoal briquettes’ if we don’t rescue them.”

Amelia chuckled, turning off the water. “All right, Chef Wright. Show me your magic. I’ll just stand back far enough that you don’t injure me, too.”

"Fair," he said with a sheepish laugh, returning to the stove top with more caution. He quickly rescued the pan from the heat, deciding it was best to serve what was left. The vegetables looked a bit more caramelized than planned but were hopefully edible.

They ended up plating a modest meal of sauteed peppers, onions, tomatoes, and some seasoned chicken slices, plus bread from a bakery in town.

The entire arrangement felt more rustic than gourmet, but it was enough for a late dinner.

They carried their plates to the small wooden table near the cottage’s front window.

A single lamp glowed in the corner, illuminating them in a warm circle.

Outside, the village’s hush gave them privacy.

“Bon appétit,” Finn said, seating himself across from Amelia. The table was cozy, just enough space for their plates, water glasses, and a small dish of butter. He tried to ignore the throbbing in his palm.

Amelia took a tentative bite, nodding with approval. “It’s actually good,” she said, relief coloring her tone. “Despite your attempts at self-immolation.”

Finn let out a short laugh, sampling the chicken. He was pleasantly surprised at how the thyme and onions worked together. “I might blow things up in the process, but I get there in the end. I think clumsiness runs in the family.”

Between bites, he tried to maintain a light tone.

“Once, I had a cousin—Chase was his name—who thought he could dip his hand in lighter fluid, light it up, and not get hurt if he just flung it off quick enough,” he recounted.

“He was determined to prove it to all of us at this beach bonfire. So, what does he do? He soaks his hand in fluid, flicks a match, and—poof—his entire hand bursts into flame.”

Amelia’s eyes went wide, half-laughing. “Oh God, was he okay?”

Finn smirked. "Burned his palm something fierce. The doctor said it was a second-degree burn. My dad joked that he should've been diagnosed with moronitis."

Amelia burst out laughing, covering her mouth with her hand. “That’s… that’s insane. But I also can’t help laughing about it.”

He shrugged, grin lingering. “We were a rowdy bunch in those days. He recovered fine, though he carries a scar that spells out ‘bad idea’ every time he flexes.” Another chuckle passed. He took another forkful of chicken, savoring the comfortable moment.

Amelia shook her head in amusement, then let it dissolve into a quieter smile. She toyed with a piece of bread on her plate. “I wish I had more stories like that from my family. Or of the brother I never knew,” she said softly. “I keep thinking how I missed so much, never being in touch with him.”

Finn stilled. “I’m sorry if bringing up my cousin made you—”

She waved him off. “No, it’s all right. I need to talk about it more, not less.” She sighed, gaze drifting to the flicker of the lamp. “I can’t understand why Brendan never tried contacting me if he kept that old photo of the two of us as toddlers. He obviously cared. So why hide from me?”

Finn’s chest tensed with empathy. He set down his fork.

“Maybe it was too painful for him to face the fact that your parents—your biological parents—had both of you, but let him go to another family while you were eventually allowed to return to your biological family once they felt they could cope. Or maybe he thought you had the better life, that seeing him might dredge up something you didn’t want to remember. Could be a thousand reasons.”