Page 80 of Charmed, I'm Sure
Addy, oblivious as ever, continued gushing about Magnolia’s food. When she called it “orgasmic,” Mags sputtered, nearly choking on her wine. The ensuing blush on her cheeks nearly undid me.
“I—I’ll just go check on the kitchen,” she stammered before hurrying off.
I watched her weave through the throng of people, then once she turned in the direction of the kitchen, I snapped my gaze back to my sister. “You really couldn’t come up with a better adjective?”
Addy shrugged. “I’m going to go hunt down my future hubby. Make sure he’s not cornered somewhere by nosey aunties.” Then with a wink and a jerk of her head toward the kitchen, she disappeared into the crowd.
Fucking sisters, man.
After dodging relatives for close to an hour, I slipped into the kitchen.
The noise hit me first—a chorus of “Yes, Chef” echoed as Magnolia directed her team. She moved effortlessly, checking sauces, tasting dishes, and adjusting plating with the precision of an artist.
I leaned against the wall, captivated.
This was her element, and aside from seeing her put together charcuterie boards at the one Meat-Cute I’d been to, I’d never seen her like this. She was flawless as she flitted back and forth from the stove, stirring and tasting before moving back to her cutting board on the island. I’d seen my mom cook when I was growing up, hell, even I knew my way around a kitchen, but watching Magnolia was like watching a dance—fluid, graceful, and every step done with a purpose.
When the staff cleared out, I broke the silence. “Come here often?”
Magnolia jumped, dropping her knife. “Shitfuckgoddamnit,” she groaned, clutching her hand to her chest. Her eyes were pinched closed as she bounced from foot to foot.
“Mags?” I closed the distance in seconds. “You okay?”
“No, I’m not okay! Don’t you know better than to sneak up on someone with a knife!?”
“You cut yourself?”
Magnolia’s eyes flew open, her gaze crashing into me with fury blazing in their depths. “No, asshole, I just felt like doing a little jig in the middle of the kitchen while spewing expletives.”
“At least your vocabulary’s intact.”
“Bite me.”
“Love to, cher. But first, let me see your hand.”
“Why?”
“Because I want to finish chopping off your finger, obviously. Now,let me see it.”
She finally unfurled her fingers. Blood coated her palm.
“Run it under cold water. I’ll be right back.”
“Where are you—wait. Don’t get your dad. I’ll die of embarrassment.”
I smirked. “Why would I get my dad?”
“For stitches?”
Shaking my head, I turned to retrieve my medical bag as confusion twisted her features. “Keep your hand under the water, I’ll be right back.”
When I returned, she was hunched over the sink.
“Alright, that’s probably good,” I said, resting my hand on the small of her back.
Magnolia groaned and stood upright, wincing as she examined her fingers. When I placed my bag on the counter, her brows quirked and she asked, “What’s that?”
“It’s a medical bag.”
