Page 102 of Butterfly Effect

“You got it.”

“You? You know how to?” I stare in awe at its circular shape and the pile of similarly sized rounds on a cooling rack.

“What, like it’s hard? I told you I can cook.” He transfers one rolled paratha between his hands before smacking it onto the cast iron skillet. “There’s matar paneer in that pot, too.”

“It’s 11:30 p.m., there’s no way—” In a haughty motion, I lift the lid, and sure enough, bright green peas and cream-colored cubes of paneer swim in a sea of red-orange gravy. The rising aroma of garam masala tickles, and I hide a sneeze in my elbow.

“Boop.” He taps my nose with his pinky. “You’re cute.”

“Ew. Quit being gross.”

“Gross?” He halts the rolling, front teeth catching on his bottom lip. “We can skip dinner and getfilthyinstead.”

A wretched lament growls from my stomach.

Wade makes an admonishingclickwith his mouth. “Never mind. Gotta get you fed before anything else.”

I fold my arms across my chest. “I’m fine.”

“You’re hungry. Sit down.” He uses the spatula to motion to the chairs.

The dominance in his tone almost turns me into a puddle, but I regain composure enough to loiter over to the bar stools on the other side of the island. “You’re not the boss of me,” I grumble.

“You keep saying that, but it doesn’t mean anything. Now, sit. Or else I’ll have to usethis”—he throws a menacing smack mid-air with the kitchen utensil— “until your ass is so red you won’t be able to.”

“You wanna spank me?” My brows wrinkle together.

“Another invitation? Again, I accept.” He slides into the stool next to me, a plate in each hand.

I study the served portion with a squint. My hands search the counter but return empty. “Where’s the spoon?”

“Spoon?”

His innocuous, quizzical expression meets my unattractive snort. What a pair we make.

“S-p-o-o-n,” I enunciate every letter, “the thing you shove food into your piehole with.”

Wade ignores the insult. “I know what a spoon is, silly. But why do you need one?”

“To—”

“You’re supposed to eat with your hands.”

“Really?” I feign incredulity, then deadpan. “I don’t need a white boy mansplaining my own cul…ture.”

I trail into silence as he tears a piece of my paratha and uses it to gather the gravy and its contents. “Open.”

My lips obey and part.

“Wider.”

Fingers pushing past the seam, he strokes the bite of food onto my tongue. Jaw slack, his mouth reflects mine, tongue drawing forward in encouragement.

It’s delicious. Rich. Warmly spiced.

I hum through a content inhale, eyes falling shut by instinct. I haven’t had anyone feed me dinner like this since…Aai.

A wave of sadness surges in my belly with the faintest memory of her creating tiny mountains of puran poli. Her enthusiastic, exaggerated expression attempts motivation for the next bite. Her mouth forms words but there’s no noise, unable to recall what she sounded like.

---