Page 41 of Out of the Cold

Then she looked down into her own glass, squared her shoulders, and brought the tumbler to her lips. Her lashes fluttered down and her throat worked right before she gave a couple of short coughs, her face flushing.

“It’s funny. I don’t like how it tastes, but I like how itfeels.”

Mother of God, why was that so sexy?

She took another sip, this one a little less cautious, licking her lips at the end.

He had the sudden urge to pick her up, sit her on the counter, and kiss her until she tasted nothing but him.

He walked to the window, looking out without seeing anything. Drawing his breath in, he let it out slowly as he silently did multiplication tables. He had to stop thinking this way. He couldnotget hard in Lucy’s kitchen.

Behind him, she was opening cabinets and drawers.

“What can I help with?” he asked, finally turning around.

“Well, I’ve never actually cooked Cornish game hens, so if you want to deal with those...”

“Do you have a recipe you want me to follow?”

She pulled a printed recipe toward them. “I was going to use this, but you don’t have to.”

“This works. I’ll do the stuffing, too, if that sounds okay.”

“That would be amazing.”

She tuned the radio to the local station, and the sounds of Miles Davis accompanied their chopping and mixing. Hilde nosed around them, getting underfoot until Lucy told her to go to bed. Head low, the dog obeyed and was soon snoring gently by the woodstove.

Len was a great cook and had a well-stocked kitchen for family get-togethers, so Gabe had a lot to work with. He melted some butter and basted the birds, then crushed some dried sage together with kosher salt and put it under the skin. Lucy had bought a stuffing mix, and he doctored it with pecans, dried cranberries, onions, sage, parsley, and thyme, and stuffed it into the hens.

“You don’t need a recipe for that?” she asked, looking over from the other side of the counter.

“I’ve made stuffing every which way. I’m on turkey duty every year.”

She’d probably never believe that he used to cook for people every holiday, and some made-up ones, besides. Big cookouts in the back yard, him on the grill taking orders. And it wasn’t only hot dogs and burgers. He’d served steaks and mahi mahi, rack of lamb and shrimp skewers, pizza from his wood-fired oven. He had a badminton net and horseshoes and a basketball hoop in the driveway for guests and their kids.

He couldn’t imagine ever being that guy again.

“So you know how to cook.”

“I like learning recipes and trying new things,” he said. “Creating something from nothing.”

“Something from nothing. I like that.”

“You do the same.”

“My cooking isn’t all that terrific.”

He laughed. “Your cooking’s great, but I meant your writing.”

“Why did you stop?”

Part of him wanted to tell her. Maybe it would be a relief. But he couldn’t do it. She didn’t know what she was asking, anyway. She thought she was making small talk.

“Fell out of the habit,” he said instead.

“Maybe you’ll get back into it after tonight.” Her smile was mischievous, a challenge.

“Hoping I’ll start feeding you like this on a regular basis?”

---