Page 22 of Second Chance Vacation

“I got it,” I snip, grabbing the eggplant from in front of Jackson. I have never cut an eggplant before, and I am pretty sure it is apparent by my actions. Holding the knife toward me, I begin mangling the skin, the confusion painted on my face. The sound of Jackson’s chuckle taunts me as he steps toward me.

“Here.” Jackson grins, invading my space.

I gulp as he crowds me, gently placing one hand over mine and the other hand on the other side of me, resting it on the cutting board to grab the eggplant. He leans down so that his lips are barely an inch from my ear. “You want to cut off the stem.” He pauses to instruct me as he guides my hand in his own. “Then you want to cut it longways.”

I try to pay attention to what he is showing me, but I am a bit distracted. The comforting scent of bergamot and cedar masks the scent of cooking as my mind falls into his proximity over all else.

“Then cut side down, you just begin cutting it into strips,” he carries on.

I don’t understand how instructions on cutting a vegetable can sound so sexy, but as his body crowds in on me closer, I feel my face flush. Jackson swiftly finishes cutting the eggplant into cubes and steps back away from me, leaving me discombobulated.

I am flustered, and I am beginning to become paranoid that he can tell.

Jackson leans over the island once more as Chef Dubois instructs us to grab two zucchinis. He smirks knowingly as he reaches over and grabs the knife from my hand.

Probably for the best.

The knife pierces the zucchini with precision, the small bite-sized pieces more uniform than the eggplant. He seems like he has been cooking for years, an unknown fact I file away for later.

Everything Chef Dubois instructs us to do, Jackson handles with ease. Every time I offer to take over, I can feel Jackson trying his best to let me take part, but he is clearly better at it. My eyes shift over to Savannah and Wesley, seeing a very different image than Jackson and me. They work together in unison, moving around each other in natural synchronicity. It seems effortless. It seems comforting. The laughter that emanates from them fills me with a sense of sorrow that I can’t quite place.

“Now that we’ve completed our prep, grab your pan and heat the aubergine in oil until it is soft and starts to brown.” Jackson reaches over, grabs the pan, and starts cooking the eggplant as instructed. My face shifts to an awkward gaze, unsure of what to do with my hands. Here I am, completely lost and a little embarrassed, as everyone else is an active participant. I stand here, a useless bystander—a metaphor for my life that is not lost on me.

A few minutes go by, and I look around once more. The heat creeps up to my cheeks as irritation boils my blood.

“Let me do it.” I rush in front of Jackson, yanking the pan from his grasp.

“Wait.” He reaches forward, but it’s too late as my hand grabs the hot iron handle of the pan.

“Fu—” I yank my hand away, trying not to cause a scene in front of company.

Fuck, this hurts.

The metal clanks to the floor, and a muddle of limp eggplant cubes now litter the marble tile.

Hurriedly, I dart out of the kitchen as my eyes begin to burn. Tears blur my vision. The searing pain emanating from my hand is starting to cloud my thoughts.

“Hey—hey. Come here,” Jackson’s voice chases after me, his voice now filled with compassion and a sense of calm I am nowhere near. The previous irritation I had toward him melts away instantly. His hand grabs my arm gently and pulls me into the bathroom. “Let me see your hand.”

My gaze falls on him, resisting him and his touch. Apparently, even in excruciating pain, I am still willing to kick the gift horse in the mouth.

“Genevieve.”

I hesitantly push my hand toward him, allowing him to investigate the burn. The bright red flesh throbs, taunting me, as he inspects the damage. It is the weirdest thing. I felt like I was going to pass out moments ago, but now, staring at his worried expression, I can’t feel a lick of pain.

“It’s just a surface burn.” The corners of his mouth quirk up as what appears to be relief falls over his expression. “It should start to feel better in a few days, but let's get it under some cool water, okay?”

Jackson gently places my hand under the stream of water coming from the faucet. The pressure stings on contact pulling a wince from my lips. After a few minutes, the pain starts to dull, offering me a welcome reprieve.

“Here.” Jackson reaches into the cabinet above the toilet and pulls out a hand towel before running it under the water. He quickly rings out the excess water. The soft cotton wraps my wound as Jackson puts pressure on it, his hand holding mine firmly.

Despite him looking up at me now, his grasp doesn’t leave my hand. As my eyes meet his, a lump catches in my throat. Every instinct in me is firing, telling me to break the contact, but as his deep blue eyes seer into mine. I can only find the will to stand here and stare back. Surrounded tightly by the half bathroom, I have nowhere to escape to. As we stand here, I realize we are only mere inches from one another, only a whisper from touching even if my hand wasn’t still in his.

I look down at my hand, then back up at him at the exact moment I feel him shift closer. I should stop him. I should be going back out into the kitchen. I should just thank him for his help and get the hell out of this bathroom. I should, but as his presence crowds me, I can’t resist the pull to meet him halfway. The memory of when he picked me up off the ground when I fell off my bike in middle school invades me. Back then, he was just my best friend’s cute older brother. I didn’t know him intimately. However, it’s crystal clear that he's still the same guy who will drop anything to help me when I’m hurt.

I stifle down the warm feeling that grows in my stomach at the memory.

His lips are a whisper away from mine. He is so close that I can feel his breath mingle with mine, the smell of peppermint assaulting my senses. The mixture of his touch and my racing thoughts have me in a stupor. I try with every fiber of my being to pull myself away, but his simple existence has my brain in a fog. As if my body has a mind of its own, I shift closer, my lips closing the distance to his—

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