Page 37 of That First Flight

She moves quickly around the kitchen to clean up her mess as if I didn’t already see it. When she tries to rush past me to grab a bowl off the island, I grip her wrist to stop her.

Macey’s eyes widen as they bore into mine, but her body relaxes under the palm of my hand.

I grip her chin with my fingers, forcing her eyes to stay fixed on mine. “What happened?”

“I’m so sorry,” Macey repeats again.

“I don’t know what the fuck you’re sorry about, but if you say it one more time, I’m going to lose my mind.” I instantly regret my tone, but it’s been a long day and the last thing I need is her being sorry for doing something here.

“I’m so—”

I cut her off by placing a finger on her lips. Her soft, plush pink lips press against my pointer finger and all I can think of is what they would feel like against mine.

She clamps her lips shut, and I move to swipe the tear that broke free from the corner of her eye with my thumb. One simple move sends sparks racing across my skin at the contact while she works to regulate her breathing from crying as hard as she was.

Craving more contact with her, I run my hand to the side of her head to bring the stray pieces of hair falling from her wild bun out of her face.

I offer her a smile, praying like hell it forces one on her face.

“You look good in my kitchen, Macey Evans.”

She groans. “I don’t feel good. I’m just so frustrated right now.”

Fail on the smile part.

I take a step back from her, and lean against the counter behind me, crossing my arms over my chest. “Talk to me.”

“I’m working on a recipe that I’ve been dying to try for a while now. I didn’t have the space in the mountain house to figure it out, so I thought I would try it here with all this space and new pots and pans. I also knew you’d be home sometime tonight and I didn’t want you to come home to a complete disaster. But I just couldn’t figure it out. I wanted it to be perfect. And I’m stressed about this interview. I don’t think I’m ready.”

“Tell me about the recipe,” I urge her.

She pauses, averting her gaze to anywhere but me. “You don’t want to know about the recipe.”

“Why not?”

“Because if I tell you, you’re going to laugh and then probably tell me how simple it sounds.”

I narrow my eyes at her.

She groans again. “Fine. It's homemade spinach and ricotta raviolis.”

I can’t help but smile at her. Raviolis do seem like a very simple thing to make, but I only know the frozen kind. Even a child can heat that up if they know how to work a stove. I can only imagine how difficult it is to make homemade ones and making sure they come out perfect.

“Each one I do pops open and everything falls out of it before it’s even done cooking. The first one I did I put too much filling in. The next one didn’t have enough. The next one was over cooked. And the sauce. I just can’t fucking get it just right. It’s just… been a disaster.”

I practically choke on a laugh. “Did you just curse?”

“Now isnotthe time to make fun of me for my use of profanity.”

I quickly move away from her, laughing on my way to the pantry.

I reach in and pull out an old apron that was given to me as a gag gift one Christmas by my sister. She knows that Inevercook. Quite frankly, I don’t have the first clue how to cook.

I’m a Pop-Tarts, leftovers and takeout kind of guy. Which Macey figured out pretty quickly.

“What are you doing?” she asks.

I pull the apron over my head, giving her my best smile in another attempt to put one on her face. It works, because now she’s downright giggling on the countertop where I left her.

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