Page 37 of Reckless Promises

Odette rolls her eyes, turning back to the stove. “What do you want, Cillian?”

That fiery little tongue of hers likes to test me, and I really shouldn’t enjoy it as much as I do.

Walking over to Odette, her stirring slows with every step. She’s pretending not to care about me closing in onher, but she gives herself away with every breath. How her chest rises and falls a little quicker. How she pulls the corner of her lip between her teeth. How the potatoes are starting to stick to the pan because she’s nearly stopped stirring.

Stopping behind her, I don’t miss that she still smells like shampoo from her shower this morning. Like flowers and honey. Her skin is still holding the warm glow from the hot water, and her breath hitches when I reach around and wrap my hand over hers on the handle.

“You’re going to burn down the kitchen if you aren’t careful.” I guide the spatula through the potatoes, stirring them around.

Her fingers are so soft and delicate as she follows my movements.

“Why stop there?” She glances up at me over her shoulder, those big green eyes barreling through my defenses. “Who says I’m not trying to burn down the whole house?”

I can’t help but chuckle at the bit of sass that lights inside her. My spark of a wife trying to set my life on fire.

“You could try.” Releasing the spatula, I reach around her and turn off the burner to set the pan aside.

But she stands frozen for a moment watching me as I shift to lean against the counter.

“What did you make?”

“Make?” She blinks, her mouth parting as her focus snaps back to the present. “Oh, make. Right. Garlic sauteed potatoes.” She glances down at the pan andfrowns. “I burned them.”

“I’m sure they’re fine.” I shrug. “Can I try one?”

Her eyebrows scrunch when she looks back up at me. “You want to try one?”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

“They’re burned—”

“Extra crispy.”

She rolls her eyes. “Fine,extra crispy. But also, I wouldn’t recommend it. It’s the first thing I’ve cooked.”

“Ever?”

“Ever.” It’s nearly a whisper, and I think she might be embarrassed by that, even though she shouldn’t be.

We might have been raised by different families, but I know the values. My father didn’t believe in helping his staff with something as simple as clearing a plate, much less cooking.

“Good.” I turn and grab two plates out of the cabinet. “I’ll be the first person to try your cooking.”

I’m not sure why that stirs up something inside me, but it does.

Holding out the plates, she pauses for a moment, before filling each one with a scoop of potatoes. And when she sets down the spatula, I hand her plate to her, along with a fork.

But we don’t walk to the table to sit. We stand at the stove, watching each other as we take a bite.

She’s right, it’s burned. Garlic chunks are charred to one side of the potato while the other is not quite cooked enough. But I chew it anyway, swallowing it down, taking another bite right after. Because my wife made this—and that thought alone brings something out.

“It’s good.”

Her face sours as she swallows. “It’s terrible.”

“It’s your first try.”

She dips her chin, trying to hide her smile and failing. The faintest little laugh slips out with it.

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