Page 57 of Running to You

He turned away, but not fast enough for her to miss the satisfied smile, and started opening cans of chili beans, tomatoes, corn, and beef broth. “All these, I guess?”

“Yup.”

When he took one to the sink, she stopped him. “Don’t drain it. We need the liquid.”

“You’re the boss.”

She’d slept much of the hour-and-a-half drive from Portland to North Conway, New Hampshire. She felt refreshed, better than she had since…well, as long as she could remember, in this decade, anyway. The headache that had throbbed incessantly was mostly gone. Her wrist, while still a little sore, only really pained her when she tried to lift something heavy—like the pot in front of her. The bruises still hurt if she thought about them, but for the most part, she didn’t.

“You haven’t seen a strainer, have you?” she asked.

“I’ll find one.” The sound of cabinets opening and closing, then, “Got it.”

“In the sink, please.” She pulled her sweatshirt sleeves over her hands in case the handles were hot and started to lift the pot. She’d gotten it there, after all. But with the meat and onions…

“Let me.” Sam nudged her out of the way and dumped the contents into the strainer, letting the fat dribble down the drain. “Back in the pot?”

“Yup.”

He did that and set it on the stove again, watching her as she added some water and the taco seasoning packet. She stirred, waiting for the water to evaporate away.

“What’s next?”

“We dump the cans in and stir.” She started with the beans.

Right beside her, Sam added the corn and broth. They got the rest of the ingredients in, and she reached past him to grab a wooden spoon from a container near the stove.

He grabbed it and handed it over. His fingers brushed hers, leaving a trail of heat on her skin. He didn’t seem to notice. Or maybe he just hid it better than she did.

Could she blame her red cheeks on the hot stovetop?

“That’s it. Now it simmers.”

He spun to the sink and started washing dishes.

“I can do that.”

“You cooked. I clean.”

They’d cooked together, but she didn’t say so as she tossed the cans and wiped the countertop.

It felt strange having a man in the kitchen with her. Cooking with her. Cleaning with her. It wasn't the cooking that felt strange—she felt like she’d done a lot of that. But doing it with another person—a tall, strong, broad-chested man who didn’t ask anything of her.

Or criticize her. Or snap at her to hurry up.

Anxiety pooled in her middle as a memory niggled.

She closed her eyes and let it come. She could see no faces, hear no voices, but it was right there, rising and disappearing like the steam coming off the soup.

A touch on her shoulder, and she jumped.

“Whoa.” Sam lifted his hands, wide eyes narrowing fast. “Tell me. What did you remember?”

“I don’t know. Nothing really. Just a sense. Cooking.”

But his suspicion didn’t fall away. “Remembering cooking made you jump out of your skin?”

She lifted her shoulders and dropped them, going for casual.