Page 50 of Brody
His admission was heavy.Charged.Dangerous.
I noticed the subtle tremor in his hands as he flipped bacon.The way he gripped the spatula just a little too tightly to compensate.My mind cataloged symptoms even as my heart clenched at whatever pain he was carrying.
“Need help?”I asked, stepping closer.
“Grate those potatoes?”He nodded toward a bowl of peeled russets, not meeting my eyes.“Nothing beats homemade hash browns.”
I reached for the grater just as he moved for the salt, our bodies sliding past each other in the narrow kitchen space without collision.Like we’d choreographed it.Like we’d been cooking together for years instead of minutes.I found myself anticipating his movements before he made them, stepping left when he needed to reach right, handing him the pepper before he asked.
This wasn’t supposed to feel so natural, so right.His arm brushed mine as he reached past me for paprika, the brief contact sending electricity racing through my system.
“Squeeze out the excess moisture,” he said, his breath warm against my ear.“Secret to crispy hash browns.”
I raised an eyebrow.“I have three doctoral degrees.I think I can handle basic potato chemistry.”
His laugh was unexpected, rich and warm and startlingly genuine.“My mistake, Dr.Dhahabu.Please proceed with your potato-dehydration protocol.”
The teasing caught me off guard.My lips curved upward before I could stop them, the muscles around my mouth almost aching with disuse.When was the last time I’d genuinely smiled?The realization made me touch my cheek, the unfamiliar sensation of my skin creasing around my eyes both startling and oddly freeing.
Our hands brushed as I passed him the potatoes.Electricity shot up my arm, pooling in my core with heat that made me press my thighs together.The kitchen suddenly felt much too warm.
The timer dinged, and he moved with efficient grace, assembling plates with golden-brown hash browns, perfectly crisped sausage patties, and wedges of a frittata that would have made a professional chef envious.
“Thank you,” I said, taking a seat at the kitchen island.The first bite of frittata nearly made me moan, herbs and cheese and vegetables in perfect harmony.“This is incredible.”
“Mere fuel,” he said, but I caught the pleased quirk of his lips as he slid onto the stool beside me.
We ate in comfortable silence for a few minutes, the domestic atmosphere dangerously appealing despite my attempts to maintain emotional distance.
“So tell me,” I said finally, steering away from the strange intimacy of the moment.“What does the great Brody Thornbern do when he’s not brewing or cooking gourmet breakfasts?”
He took a sip of coffee, considering.“I carve.”
“Carve?”
“Wood,” he clarified.“Figures, mostly.Animals.Been doing it since the military, something about the focus required, having to be completely present with each cut.”
I tried to imagine those large hands creating delicate wooden figures with patient precision.The contradiction was… appealing.
“I’d like to see them sometime,” I said before I could stop myself.
His gaze intensified, pupils dilating until only a slim ring of gray remained.His gaze dropped to my lips for just a heartbeat before returning to my eyes.“I’d like that too,” he said, his voice dropping to that register that vibrated straight through my chest and settled low in my belly.
We finished eating without speaking, but the silence buzzed with electricity.The clink of silverware echoed unnaturally loudly.Each time our eyes accidentally met, the temperature in the room seemed to spike.I became hyperaware of every movement, the way his throat worked when he swallowed, how his fingers curled around his coffee mug, the slight shift of his body when he reached for his napkin.I set down my fork with a deliberate clatter, determined to break whatever spell had fallen over the kitchen before I did something stupid like reach across the island and touch him just to see if his skin felt as hot as it looked.
“So what does the doctor do to unwind?”he asked, leaning back with obvious amusement.
Warmth bloomed across my neck.“You’d be surprised.”
“Try me.”
I debated how much to reveal.Three doctoral degrees, groundbreaking medical research, and international recognition, and what did I do to relax?
“I watch ghost hunter shows,” I admitted finally.“The cheesier, the better.”
His coffee mug froze halfway to his lips.“Ghost hunters?You, the woman who just explained the brain-chemistry complexities of shifter healing, spend your free time watching people chase shadows with EMF detectors?”
“Don’t judge,” I said, picking up my fork, pointing it at him accusingly.“There’s something soothing about watching people get excited over creaky floorboards and temperature drops.It’s… uncomplicated.”
