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“Charly.”
I deepen my voice to mimic his. “Bryce.”
“You’re painful.”
“You’re no walk in the park.”
His lips twitch. “It’s my night to cook.”
“I wanted to make my famous tacos to thank you for helping me.”
“Famous?”
I wave a hand, and roll my eyes. “Well, they’re famous at the diner, and that’s good enough for me.”
“Can I help at least?”
I place the tortillas on the tray in front of me. “Nope.”
He heaves a sigh, and rests his palm on the island. “You’ve turned my own grandmother against me. She lied to me to help you with your scheme.”
I laugh. “I was young when my grandmother passed, so we didn’t get much time together.” I push the knife through a crisp green pepper. “I know we just met, but I feel a connection with her. She’s so open, and wise, and kind.” My words halt on my tongue when I notice Bryce’s scrutinizing gaze on my pepper. “Look, mister. I’m not claiming to be a renowned chef. This is how I chop. If you don’t like it, then you can—”
He rounds the corner of the island, and steps behind me, his warm breath dancing along my neck. “May I?”
My brain goes fuzzy, and I can’t remember what I was in the middle of saying. I squeak out a sound that sounds like, “Yes.”
Bryce’s hands trail down my forearms, singeing my bare skin, until they cover my own, swallowing them up. “Rock the knife like this, keeping the tip of the blade down.”
All I can register are words like rock and tip, and his body is so close, I break out in a sweat.
“Fold these fingers in, so you don’t chop one off.” His fingers curl around mine, holding my fist in the palm of his hand like it’s a golf ball.
I’m engulfed by his sheer size, and his fresh scent of cedar mixed with something sweet. My heart thrashes against my chest, and I swallow, my throat as dry as the desert.
“Like this. Understand, Charly?”
My stomach flips at the sound of my name coming from his gruff, raspy voice. “Yes.” I squeeze my eyes shut, waiting for him to step back, waiting for the rush of cool air at the loss of his touch.
Instead, his hands trail back up the path they came from, over my wrists, along my forearms, and up my biceps. He stops there, like he’s holding me in place—or holding himself back.
A low growl rumbles through his chest, vibrating against my back. “You smell like peaches.”
My voice shakes. “Do you like peaches?”
“They’re becoming my favorite fruit.”
Oh, lord. My knees threaten to buckle.
The kitchen door flies open as Beatrice pushes it with her cane. “How’s everything going in here?”
Bryce and I jump apart, like we’re guilty teenagers who shouldn’t be caught together.
“Fine. Good. Great. Chicken’s almost done.” A nervous laugh escapes me as my eyes dart to Bryce. But he leaves me hanging with his back turned, pulling down plates from the cabinet.
Beatrice smiles like she stumbled upon a juicy secret. “Well, then. I’ll let the guests know dinner will be out soon.” She practically dances out of the kitchen.
My skin hums like a beehive for the rest of the evening. But Bryce moves around me like the moon orbits the earth, never coming close enough to touch.
