Page 42 of SALT

My eyes narrow on his and I cross my arms. "Did you tell her how?"

Those dark obsidian orbs soften right before his hand comes up to my cheek, his eyes following the path of his thumb as he gently swipes it across. "No," he says before his eyes drift back to mine. "Have dinner with me."

"Okay."

"Achicken recipe that calls for bourbon. Are you sure that goes in there?"

He pours the bottle into the skillet. "I'm sure. It's not that much, only an ounce or two tablespoons."

"Then why don't you use the tablespoons? I thought you were supposed to be teaching me."

He purses his lips before his eyes flick up to where I'm sitting on the counter next to the stove. "I laid out all the ingredients, and rather than stand beside me, you chose to sit up there." He corks the top of the bourbon. "I thought that meant you'd rather watch than get a lesson."

"So if I hop down, you'll use a tablespoon?"

There's a mischievous glint in his eye before his pouty lips pull to the side. "Something like that."

Those heavy lashes fall slowly as his eyes drift down my body before returning to the stove. There is no way in hell I'm not getting down to find out what "something like that" means. I take a sip of my wine and count to ten in my head so I'm not too damn obvious before I casually slide off the countertop.

"Teach me."

He gives me a quick glance before extending his arm out. "Come here."

I point to the small space between him and the stove. "You want me to…" I gesture between him and the stove.

"Yes, Cameron. This part is important."

"Okay," I say as I nervously take a step. Why am I suddenly nervous around him? He's always affected me, but now it feels different.

It's different because he gave me a truth. I now know I affect him too.

When I'm within his reach, his hand grips my shoulder, and he positions me right where he wants me: in front of the stove. My entire body instantly heats with awareness.

"Do you see what I'm doing with the spatula? This is one of the key steps with this recipe. You want to scrape up any bits stuck to the pan." I watch as he moves the turner around the pan. I try to pay attention, but it's hard to focus with his hand grasping my arm and my back pushed against his front. "Here, you try. This part is only roughly a minute before we reduce the heat and add the other ingredients."

When I take the spoon, I start doing exactly as he instructed. "Why wouldn't we just turn down the heat now? Then the meat and the bourbon wouldn't stick to the pan."

"You're going to want those charred little bits. They're the best part," he says as he steps away, taking the warmth with him. "Keep scraping the bottom as I add in the other ingredients." I watch as he pulls out a measuring cup. "Three-fourths cup of heavy whipping cream," he slowly pours the thick milk into the pan.

"What are we making anyway?"

"Chicken," he says, grabbing another measuring cup.

"I can see that it's chicken. I mean what is the recipe called?"

"One cup of chicken stock," he says as he pours the stock into the pan with a little more haste. "And half a cup of sun-dried tomatoes." He adds a small bag of tomatoes to the mixture, and suddenly, his hands are back on me as one arm wraps around my waist, making every hair on my body stand at attention. He pulls me flush against his front as the other hand reaches in front of me. "Now we let it simmer," he says, his mouth close to my ear but not near close enough. "Some people add the parmesan now, but I like to add it near the end." His hand covers mine on the spoon. "You don't need to scrape anymore," he guides my hand in a slower motion. "Just ensure the ingredients are well mixed, and then we let it set." I watch as he stirs the sauce in the pan, but my thoughts are only on him. His thumb has subtly slipped under the hem of my crop top and is gently stroking the skin, melting me from the inside out. I'm scared to move and breathe for fear of losing this moment. I'm getting parts of him now that I've never seen him give, and I know while we might just be cooking a meal, it's so much more than that. I feel him breathe deeply, and then he releases me, setting the spatula down before covering the pan. "Now we wait."

I pull in a long, cleansing breath to collect myself before stepping aside and reclaiming my glass of wine. I take a big drink before turning around to find him doing the same. His eyes meet mine and I know we're drinking for the same reason. Our nerves are shot. We're barely scratching the surface of what we both want: more.

"What is this, Ev? What are we doing?"

He sets down his glass and grips the countertop before breaking eye contact and turning his gaze out the window. "I don't know how to answer that."

"Can you try?"

He closes his eyes and rolls his lips before saying, "It means there is nothing else I'd rather be doing at this moment. It means I'm right where I want to be with the person I want to be with. Does that answer your question?"

It more than answered my question, it made my heart soar. But I can tell it was a lot for him to admit, and I don't want to press for too much too fast. It's clear that while we shared an intense night together, he's not in a hurry to repeat it. I've waited this long; I can wait a little longer, especially if he keeps giving me truths. But right now, I want to go back to enjoying our evening. The heavy scares him, so I try to rewind and reset and say, "Sort of," with a shrug, as if he didn't just drop a giant truth bomb. "You still haven't told me what we're making."

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