Page 101 of Butterfly Effect

I head home after cooldowns and don’t have to face Gabe ignoring me in the press room.

“Tomato-onion gravy, diced paneer.” Mentally checking off the recipe step, I add the latter to the former in a wide-mouthed pot.

The round of paratha dough taunts me from its mixing bowl. I rub my hands together and split it into ten even balls and glare when one goes oval between my pressed palms.

From oval to square in five seconds flat.

“Flatbread, not square bread, knucklehead.”

It rumples when I ball the dough up again.

Indi’s mom made it look so easy.A western rolling pin is fine, she said.It doesn’t have to be a perfect circle, she said.

“Yes, it does, Mrs. Davè,” I say to myself. “It has to be perfect for her.”

I repeat the exercise no less than a dozen times until a circle forms. “Fuckingfinally.”

The pan sizzles when the paratha slaps onto its hot surface.

First paratha? Raw.

Second paratha? Burnt to a crisp.

The third and fourth have spots that also weigh on a darker shade of brown, but the fifth, my God! The fifth is okay; it even puffs in certain parts. The sixth and seventh are almost identical to each other and resemble the ones Indi’s mom showed me.

It’s just in time, too.

With a beep and a whir, the door unlocks. An excited smile stretches my face so wide, my eyes shrink to slits.

I keep my back to her—showing off my best assets, obviously—and continuing a diligent effort in making more paratha, waiting for the chance to pamper my freckled girl.

Chapter 18

The Burden of Control

Gabe

I needto have my brain scrubbed out.

The cut, toned muscles covering the back of Wade’s naked torso tense and relax as he uses a spatula to flip something. Saliva pooling, my eyes draw lower, broad shoulders to narrow hips, two tempting divots above the waistband of a pair of heather gray sweatpants hugging the rounds of his hockey ass.

The black duffle in hand slips from my grip onto the foyer floor.

He turns at the sound, wearing a signature shit-eating smirk and showing off his square pecs and abs. The defined v of his hips is like an arrow pointing downward to the main attraction. His cock bulges against his thigh in a slight curve, the fabric clinging to its length so tautly I can nearly see veins.

“Up here, Freckles.”

My cheeks flame.

“Oooh, are we having a sleepover?” His eyes flick to my fallen bag and back to me. “Those are my favorite.”

The throbbing between my legs transfers to my brain. I groan and rub my temples. “Should have left it in the car.”

“And what fun would that have been?” Wade pivots back and picks up a wooden rolling pin from the counter, sprinkling flour onto the marble. His triceps flex as he works.

“Too bad I’m not here to have fun; I’m here to eat—” A very specific scent of wheat cooked in heated oil follows the hiss at the stovetop. I peer over him. Whatever anger and annoyance I held from his obnoxious shenanigans at the game softens. “You’re making…paratha?”

I haven’t eaten homemade desi food in ages. Language, traditions, food. They’d been discarded to lessen the ache.

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