“Here, let me.”
He comes up behind me and I surrender the waist straps, our hands brushing in the process, and my pulse starts to speed, the temperature in the kitchen rising by a few degrees. He takes his time with it, his fingers grazing my lower back, and when his knuckles sweep higher, skimming my spine, I suck in a breath—a physical reaction that’s impossible to conceal with him standing barely an inch away in this silent kitchen.
His hands stall for the briefest of moments—a short eternity—before resuming and tightening the bow in one final tug, then traveling upward to free my hair from the loop around my neck, his fingers repeatedly stroking my bare skin. When I realize I’m surreptitiously breathing him in, reveling in his intoxicating scent, I quickly spin back around—only to find I’m now facing him from barely an inch away.
His eyes are smoldering blue embers as he stares down at me. “Perfect.”
“Thanks.” It comes out breathy, barely above a whisper. I quickly clear my throat and rock back a step, knocking directly into his space-age refrigerator, and the touch screen on the front panel blinks to life. I half expect the display to read: SHAME.
Oo-kay, let’s reset. I throw open the refrigerator doors and take a deep, cleansing breath, letting the cool air hit my face and chill my over-sensitized skin while I take a moment to reorient myself.
Settle down.
Don’t get sidetracked.
Don’t let him derail you.
I blink a few times, the shrink-wrapped bundle in front of me suddenly coming into focus. Right, the bird. You’re making Engagement Chicken, remember? I wrestle it out of the fridge and over to a cutting board that’s set out on his island, acutely aware of Jack’s eyes on me.
“Let me help you with that,” he says and starts toward me, but I wave him off.
“I’ve got it. You just relax on one of your lumberjack-chic barstools over there and leave it to me.”
He laughs but makes no move to sit, instead standing there and watching me with a lopsided grin. His surveillance is making me nervous, so to busy myself I start inspecting the stainless-steel roasting pan that’s set out on his range like I’m some sort of cookware connoisseur. Mmm, Calphalon. Nice. Of course, I take it a step too far by picking it up and shaking it, like I’m testing its weight.
I catch Jack’s mouth twitching out of the corner of my eye. “Your staring is making me self-conscious,” I warn.
He chuckles again and circles the island. “How about I get us something to drink?” he offers, already opening the door of what looks like a well-stocked wine fridge.
Wine! I could hug him. “Yes!” I practically yell. Anything to take the edge off my awkwardness.
“This okay?” he asks, holding up a bottle of pinot grigio, and when I see it’s my favorite brand—the one I ordered on our double date with Christine and Greg—I blink in surprise.
“Wow, you have a good memory.”
He doesn’t respond, just grins smugly as he works to uncork the bottle, his biceps flexing with the effort.
“Or wait, this is all part of your pickup line thing, right? Paying attention to the details.”
He grins wider as he pours. “Can’t get anything past you.”
“I see what you’re up to.”
He winks, sliding me a glass and holding up his own, and we clink them together. I take a sip, savoring the flavor, then sigh in contentment as it hits my bloodstream. “It’s a nice move,” I concede.
He laughs and sets his glass down. “If you think that one was good, you’re gonna love this . . .”
He pulls his phone from his back pocket and starts tapping, and a few seconds later the opening strains of Sam Cooke’s “You Send Me” fill the kitchen, the music wafting down from speakers embedded in the ceiling.
“Wow.” I throw the back of my hand to my forehead, mock-faint. “That was very smooth, Mr. Bradford. I might swoon.”
“I had a little help from Motown radio on Spotify,” he says modestly.
“And speakers in the ceiling, huh? I totally have that at my apartment too.” I mouth “Fancy” at him while he laughs. “Now stop distracting me or we’re never gonna eat.”
I locate the requisite cooking utensils with Jack’s help, then lay the recipe printout on the island and survey the ingredients again, making sure everything’s present and accounted for. Okay fine, I’m stalling. Why couldn’t this recipe have been for something simpler, like “Engagement Pasta” or something?
It’s like he can hear my thoughts. “Do you make this often?” he asks, leaning his forearms on the island.
“Oh sure, all the time. It’s one of those recipes that seems difficult, but is actually really easy,” I bluff, as if the single Ina Garten YouTube video I watched last night makes me some kind of expert. Even with her bound and gagged, I can feel Betty’s silent judgment for this dereliction of my feminine duties.
Come on, you can do this. You’ve seen Julie & Julia countless times. “If you can read, you can cook,” right?
If you say so, Julia.
I follow the recipe exactly. I start by preheating the oven, then wash the chicken in cold water, taking out the gizzards (gross) from its cavity (grosser), then stuffing it with lemons (grossest). I season the whole thing with salt and pepper, then baste it with more lemon juice. I even truss it, tying the legs up with string, before adding the sliced-up veggies to the roasting pan. By the time I’m done, I’m strutting around Jack’s kitchen like a MasterChef contestant. Gordon Ramsay’s got nothing on me.
While I’m meal-prepping, Jack’s serving as my personal peanut gallery, providing running commentary and peppering me with questions about my childhood, college experience, and early years in the city. It doesn’t escape my notice that yet again, he’s learning more about me than I am about him, but this time I have a plan to turn the tables.
I pop the chicken in the oven and set an alarm on my phone (I’m not even going to try to locate the timer on this futuristic contraption), then say a prayer to the cooking gods that everything turns out okay. Rachael, Giada, and Martha, don’t fail me now. I even throw one up to Snoop for good measure.
“It has to cook for ninety minutes,” I inform him, untying the apron and setting it on the island. “So we have some time to kill.”
Jack’s face immediately turns mischievous. “Hmm. Whatever shall we do to pass the time?” He rises from his perch on the barstool and saunters over, leaning a hip against the marble countertop, his body angled toward mine meaningfully. He’s invading my personal space now, and if he thinks that’s going to unnerve me . . . then he is absolutely right. Damnit.
I place a hand on his chest. Time to flip the script. “Oh, I know exactly what I want to do.”
Chapter 12
His brows shoot up and his face goes slack. I’ve surprised him.
“You do?” His gaze briefly flicks south, snagging on my mouth. “And what’s that?”