Page 37 of Change of Plans

She gave a breathless laugh, tipping her chin away from him and patting him twice on the arm, like she wanted to tap out of a painful wrestling maneuver. He let her go, and she backed away, grabbing her tongs.

“No, I mean I’m burning, and I can’t ruin a nice piece of meat because I’m distracted by a nice piece of meat.” She clicked her tongs, her smile morphing to a wince. “Sorry. That was crass. It’s my inner trucker coming out. But I can’t let this steak get overdone. Here. Come make yourself useful and chop these veggies. While I’m making us dinner, I’m also prepping next week’s soups.”

As she busied herself flipping the steaks on the stove, Ryker positioned himself behind the middle island she’d gestured at, with its cutting board, knife, and bowls of carrots, celery, and onion. He surreptitiously adjusted himself in his jeans, but it was useless. The kiss was on mental replay and, in the middle of cutting carrots, he sliced his thumb.

“Ow. Shit.”

Bryce looked over, her eyes widening. “Oh, no. Are you okay? I should’ve given you a knife lesson before I set you loose—like you said at your garage, dull instruments are dangerous, and my knives are sharpened weekly. Come over to the sink and let me see.”

He gripped his finger to stop it from bleeding on the vegetables and followed her to the sink, where she thrust his hand under the cold tap.

“It’s fine.” He rinsed it off. The sucker was a bleeder, oozing despite the cold water and pressure he was applying, but he wasn’t worried. He was trying not to move. Because if he moved, Bryce might take her hands away, and it felt so fantastic having her hands on him he’d gladly bleed another two pints’ worth for the privilege.

Bryce shoved up his sleeve so his shirt didn’t get wet, and after dunking his hand under the water, she had kind of paused, her eyes glued to his forearm.

Worried that she might be like Drake—a fainter at the sight of blood—he shifted his weight and stepped away from the sink and behind her. In case she fell, or slumped forward, he could catch her first.

“Hey, I’m okay.” The blood finally stopped. “Are you…are you feeling dizzy? Do you want to sit down?”

“What?” She blinked, then released her grip on his forearm with something like reluctance. “Oh. Sorry. Your freaking arm…”

He looked down at his arm. It wasn’t bleeding. There wasn’t a thing wrong with it.

“…it should come with an R-rating,” she finished, ducking around him to the stove. “Band-Aids are in the kit behind the sink. They’re probably all girly ones—my nieces go through a mountain of them each month, and nothing eases a boo-boo like a princess Band-Aid.”

He twisted the water off and got a paper towel for his finger. He rummaged through the kit, finally selecting a red, white, and blue Wonder Woman one. It wasn’t until he’d wound it around his finger that he finally figured out what Bryce was saying about the R-rating.

She liked looking at his arms.

His lips swerved from a frown to a smile.

And before he resumed chopping the carrots, he pushed both sleeves up higher.

***

Cooking alongside her in the kitchen was as easy as breathing. After he’d been reprimanded twice not to make a mess on his station, they began to talk. At first it was mindless chitchat about their week, what was going on with the girls and with his Mercury restoration, but soon they were trading stories on everything from rock concerts they’d attended to listing all the cars they’d ever driven. Turned out, her list was longer than his on both counts, and he found that fact delightful. As they chatted, chopped, and sautéed their way toward dinner, he began to realize this woman had begun to carve her way into his heart—a place he’d thought had been destroyed along with his left leg years ago.

Finally, Bryce expertly plated the steaks, nestling them next to the vegetables.

“Okay, the steak is done, the zucchini is perfectly grilled, and the Parker House rolls are warm. Let’s go sit down and eat.”

He carried the dishes as instructed and followed her out into the dining area. The lights in his mom’s restaurant were off and the shades on the front windows were drawn. With only the light from the kitchen, the area was shadowed in a comfortable gray.

“I should’ve gotten some candles.” She frowned as she set down their wineglasses and the bottle he’d brought. “We can barely see our food.”

“I don’t need to see it.” He slid into the booth. “I already know it’s a hell of a lot better than my usual protein shakes.”

She snorted. “Well, that’s a low bar.”

Instead of taking the seat opposite him, Bryce slid into the booth with him, and his inner teenaged boy howled with triumph. Her leg was touching his, and she was so close he caught a whiff of her delectable lemony scent.

Bryce fiddled with her phone, then held it up. A single candle’s flame flickered on the screen there, and she balanced it on the table’s salt and pepper dispensers.

“There. Now, dig in before it gets cold.”

Bryce carved into her steak with gusto, eating with unapologetic hunger and enjoyment. It was so. Damn. Hot.

“Mmm.” She sipped the cabernet sauvignon the liquor store guy had recommended. “This is the perfect wine. Nice job. Try a roll. I’m not much of a baker, but my mom taught me how to master Parker House rolls. They’re a bitch to make but worth it.”

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