Page 43 of Continuum

I tipped my chin upward. “Then do it.”

He kissed me and while it was quick, the look he gave me was so sweet and tender that my cheeks heated. “Thank you.”

We worked covertly because we didn’t want Pamela to notice that we were helping each other out. Our rhythm was flawless as we worked together. We exchanged cooking stories—both fails and successes. And while the macaroni and cheese recipe didn’t call for it to be in the oven, I baked ours.

“I see you did learn to cook over the years. I’m proud of you,” Kwame joked.

“I’m going to be honest…” I started as I inhaled the chicken he was frying. “I’m decent in the kitchen now but there are a few dishes I put my foot in—macaroni is one of them.”

“Speaking of macaroni and cheese…” He looked me up and down. “When we were on the third floor, I wish there was more time because I wanted to spend more time tasting you.”

My lower body clenched at his words. “Oh, we would’ve definitely gotten caught if you would’ve done that. I had my eyes closed and my face pressed against the desk.”

He licked his lips. “Mmm… I know. I remember every second of how you looked when you were facedown, ass up. I committed that shit to memory.”

“You have ten more minutes!” Pamela called out.

“I’ll cook the broccoli,” I said shakily.

He smirked. “Am I making you uncomfortable?”

“No.” I got closer to him, my breasts pressing into his arm. “You’re making me wet.”

“Shit,” he said, discreetly adjusting himself. He looked down at the pan to take the chicken out of the oil.

“Am I making you uncomfortable?”

“No. But it will be uncomfortable for me if I can’t get this to go down before we have to present our meals.”

He took a step back from the stove and I was able to see the impressive print pressing against his jeans.

I winked at him. “I look forward to putting that in my mouth later.”

“Don’t play with me, Aisha.”

I picked up the cutting board with the chopped broccoli. “Who’s playing?”

We differentiated our meals by making mine spicy and his mild. When we plated our food on the entrée plates, it wasn’t that difficult to tell which was which. I sprinkled a couple of red pepper flakes on top of my macaroni to distinguish between the two. As we waited for them to be picked up, we surveyed the competition.

“No one else baked theirs,” I noticed, looking around at the soupy mac and cheese on the pick-up rack that was rolling to the front of the room.

“They already lost,” he muttered under his breath.

It took so much effort to keep my laughter inside.

Pamela called in two other chefs and each tasted the sample plates. We put our food in to-go containers as they deliberated.

“The best entrée goes to Kwame and Aisha!” Pamela announced.

“Figures,” the man behind us grumbled. “Should’ve knowntheywould know how to cook chicken.”

I turned around quickly. “What was that?”

“Nothing,” he snapped. “I wasn’t talking to you.”

“It sounded like you were talking about me so repeat yourself.”

“What don’t you understand about the phrase I wasn’t talking to you?”

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