Page 171 of Fighting the Forbidden

“So, what are you making?” I gesture to the bags on the counter.

“Well, it depends on what kind of cookware you own.” She bites her bottom lip. “If you have a baking dish, I thought I’d make buffalo chicken enchiladas. If not, it’s going to be soft chicken tacos.”

Laughing, I lean over and open one of the bottom cabinets. “We’re in luck because the first option sounds awesome.” I pull out a heavy, green glass baking dish and set it on the counter. “Will that work?”

“Yup.” She grabs it and sets it on the other side of my oven, then starts unpacking the bags, neatly laying everything out over my counters and kitchen table.

“Let me grab a shirt, then I’ll be back to help you.”

Lost in thoughts of meal prep, she only nods at me. Her eyes dart around as if she’s trying to figure out where I store everything.

“Silverware in there.” I point to a drawer next to the stove. “Dishes up there. I have a frying pan and a saucepan for cookware down there.” I point to a lower cabinet next to the stove.

“Perfect.”

Chuckling to myself, I hurry into the bedroom and grab the first clean shirt I find. I peer in the mirror next to my closet and run my fingers through my hair, taming a few spiky pieces.

Molly’s in my kitchen, making dinner for us. Why am I fucking with my hair?

I thought for sure I’d screwed things up with us before. But she’s here. I hate that it seems to be some sort of apology dinner she’s putting together, though. She’s not the one who needs to apologize. I am.

The scent of sizzling onions greets my nose in the hallway. Molly’s humming to herself and flitting around my tiny kitchen like she owns it. I lean on the doorframe and watch her for a few seconds. She stripped off the sweatshirt and draped it over the back of a chair, leaving her in a tight pink tank top and black leggings.

How am I supposed to leave her for two months?

Because hopefully when I get back, I’ll have enough money to take care of us for years. Short-term pain for long-term gain.

“Smells good,” I say.

She turns and smiles.

“Need help?”

“Sure.” She waves her hand over the short assembly line of fixings in a neat row on my counter. “We’re going to spread that mixture in the tortillas, stuff them with cheese, chicken, and the veggie mix, then roll ’em up and nestle them in the baking dish.”

“Sounds easy enough.” I move closer. “Which end do you want me at?”

She studies the ingredients, as if she’s really concerned about what point in the process my skills will be most valuable.

“Hmm…how about I’ll do the spreading and you do the stuffing.”

“Happy to stuff your tacos anytime, Muffin.” I flash a dirty smile at her.

She attempts a stern side-eye, but the corners of her mouth twitch. “En-chil-a-das.” She pronounces each syllable slowly.

“Even better.” I pick up the spoon and run my gaze over her body. “Where are we smearing this again?”

“Not on me,” she scoffs. “It has hot sauce in it.”

“Okay, yeah. Let’s definitely keep that away from our sensitive parts.”

“All right, funny guy.” She nods at the spoon in my hand. “You spread, I’ll stuff.”

“Works for me.” I dip the spoon in the orange mixture and smear it over a softened corn tortilla, then pass it to Molly.

While I’d probably sloppily toss everything together, throw it in the oven, and hope for the best, Molly artfully arranges each layer, then neatly rolls each enchilada and carefully places them seam-side down in the baking dish.

“Kinda feeling like a slacker here.” I wave the spoon at her after handing over the final tortilla.

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