Page 122 of Spindrift

Emiliaglanced down at the stove and then up again. “So are you, Morgan.”

Shewanted to brush off the compliment. A joke rose to her lips, but she bit itback and instead closed the distance between them. Emilia couldn’t turn herback on the stove without burning the garlic, so Morgan wrapped her arms aroundher waist and rested her cheek against Emilia’s. The fragrance of her shampoomingled with the smells of cooking. Morgan decided she could happily smellginseng and garlic for the rest of her life.

Shedidn’t speak. She watched Emilia stir the garlic and accepted a strand of pastato test, all the while aware of the sense of rightness, of belonging, thatsuffused her.

Hadit felt this right with Kate?

ComparingEmilia to Kate was a mistake, and yet the last time she’d been in the kitchenwith a woman like this had been in the apartment she’d shared with her fiancé.Comparison was inevitable.

Emiliashifted her weight as she cooked. The motion should have disrupted the way theyfit together, but all it did was bring her closer. Perhaps it had felt likethis with Kate in the beginning, back when they were younger and dumber andunaware of the consequences of a shared life. She hadn’t felt Kate pullingaway. She hadn’t seen her tears or her anger, her frustration about one lonelymeal after the next as Morgan worked and worked and worked, pushing herself tobuild them a better life and completely unaware that with each late night shepushed Kate further and further away. How could she trust in this if she hadfailed so totally before?

Emiliaadded some of the freshly chopped herbs to the garlic and put her back to thegas burners. Morgan instinctively pulled them a step back and out of the way ofthe open flame.

“Hey,are you okay?”

“Yeah,”said Morgan.

“Yougot quiet.”

“Iwas enjoying the garlic.”

“That’snot what I meant.” Emilia laced her fingers around Morgan’s bicep.

“I’mjust thinking.”

“Aboutwhat?”

“Stuff.”

“Stuff,”Emilia repeated. “Any of it interesting?”

“Maybe.”

“Whatdo I have to do to get you to tell me?”

Afew possibilities flashed through Morgan’s mind. Desire struck, spreading likeelectricity from the places where Emilia touched her. “Depends.”

“Dependson what?”

“Onhow much you care about burning the garlic.”

“Oh,shit.” Emilia spun around and snatched the saucepan from the stove. “Fetch methe bottle of white wine on the counter.”

Morganobeyed, enjoying the command more than was probably healthy.

Emiliawrapped up the meal preparation with a surge of steam from the pasta andmussels and a generous swig from the bottle of wine, which she passed toMorgan. The pinot grigio wasn’t bad, she noted as she took a sip.

“Okay.”Emilia surveyed the bowls before her. “Now we just need a drink.”

“CanI get you one?”

“I’mthe hostess. Pick your poison. Wine? Beer? I don’t have anything harder, but—”She stopped talking when Morgan slid her hands beneath the sheer fabric of hercrop top.

Drinkingcould wait.

• • •

Emiliaswirled the wine in her glass as she breathed out a contented sigh. Dinner hadturned out even better than she could have hoped. The mussels dripped flavors,and the memory of Morgan’s eyes closing as she took her first bite, moaning,caused a physical reaction in Emilia that made sitting deeply uncomfortable.

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