Page 50 of Stuck with Doctor Grump

I blinked. “You what?”

“I thought they were dried basil.”

I looked at the sauce. Red. Angry. Bubbling like a potion from a Grimm fairytale.

“Damien!”

He held up his hands. “In my defense, the labels were faded, and you keep them in mismatched jars like you’re running a medieval apothecary.”

I jabbed a wooden spoon toward his chest. “You don’t get to insult my spice system and ruin my marinara.”

He stepped closer, arms crossed. “You’re the one who invited me to help. Helping is what I do. Efficiently.”

“Oh, I see. So now it’s my fault for letting you near a stove?”

He grinned. “Well, if we’re assigning blame—”

“You know what?” I said, slicing a carrot aggressively. “Just because I chop veggies at an angle doesn’t mean I’m wrong!”

“Actually,” he said, smug as ever, “that’s exactly what it means.”

I whipped around, brandishing the carrot like a weapon. “Say that again. I dare you.”

Instead of answering, he laughed—really laughed—eyes crinkling, shoulders shaking like he couldn’t believe the mess we’d made.

And just like that, my frustration fizzled.

I tried to hold onto the indignation, but it was hard when his smile was that disarming. And when I realized we were arguing about chili flakes and carrot geometry in a kitchen filled with half-cooked chaos, I couldn’t help it.

I burst out laughing.

“Okay,” I admitted, dropping the carrot and leaning against the counter. “We’re officially a disaster.”

“A functional one,” he offered, closing the gap between us.

I looked up at him. “Functionally flammable.”

He dipped his head, forehead almost brushing mine. “At least the company’s hot.”

A groan escaped my lips. “You did not just make a fire pun.”

“I regret nothing,” he said, brushing a smudge of flour off my cheek. His fingers lingered. “Although I think you’re still winning the flour fight.”

“Oh really?” I reached up and dabbed a finger into the bag of flour on the counter, smearing a streak across his jaw like a war stripe. “Now we’re even.”

He leaned in, eyes flicking to my lips. “You sure?”

I nodded slowly. “Positive.”

He kissed me then—soft and sweet at first, like an apology for all the bickering. Then deeper, as if tasting the storm beneath thelaughter. I melted into him, arms looping around his neck, the kitchen forgotten for a few seconds that stretched like silk.

Then the smoke detector went off. Again.

We both groaned and burst out laughing mid-kiss.

“Okay, that’s it,” Damien said, reaching for a chair to silence the alarm. “I’m ordering pizza before we set the whole neighborhood ablaze.”

“Good call.” I grabbed the sauce pot and marched it to the sink. “This is officially unredeemable.”

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