Miss Fix-It

I leaned against the table, taking a moment to notice that it was set. Plates, cutlery—the half-full bottle of wine I hadn’t finished the night before.

Um.

“Having problems?” I grinned at his back.

“I know you’re smiling, so stop it,” he said without looking at me.

I smiled wider.

“And, yes. Problems. This damn thing drives me crazy.” He waved his hand in the direction of the stove-top. “It heats up quicker than I can turn it down, and now I can’t turn it off.”

I leaned over. “The child-lock is on.”

He froze, looking over his shoulder at me. “It has a child-lock?”

Closing the distance between me and the hob, I pressed the key-shaped pad on the top until it beeped, then turned it off.

“Well, fuck me,” Brantley muttered.

Okay.

Wait, no.

I shook my head and took a seat at the table. He chuckled, and… Oh my god.

Oh. My. God.

I shook my head. It looked like I was answering his question.

This. This was why I shouldn’t be here. I couldn’t even plan a goddamn headshake that was the equivalent of an eyeroll.

He poured the spaghetti back into the pan and mixed in some sauce, this time, operating the stove-top very carefully. I stifled a laugh as he jabbed frantically at the flat buttons hoping they’d register his touch.

“Motherfucker,” he muttered.

Biting the inside of my cheek, I got up and nudged him out the way. “Gently is the key,” I said, wiping off the touch pad with the bottom of my shirt to clear his prints. I hit the power button, then the back circle. “What number power?”

“Uh…”

“Five it is.” I pressed the ‘down’ key until it was on the middle heat. “You’re jabbing at it too hard. Just touch it, like your phone.”

“My phone doesn’t beep at me angrily every time I touch it.”

“Yours is better behaved than mine.”

He laughed, pulling a spoon out of the utensil pot. “Thank you. I don’t think I’ll ever get used to this kitchen.”

“Well, if it comes to it, I know someone who can fit you another.”

His gaze slid to me. “Pimping yourself out?”

“No. I actually know someone who can fix this.” I circled my finger in the area of the stove. “But, if you want new cabinets…” I clicked my tongue and pointed to myself. “I’m your girl.”

“Good to know.” He held my gaze, spoon stilled in the center of the pot.

I blushed.

“Did you know that you blush a lot?”

I blushed harder. “Did you know that you didn’t put the sauce in that pasta and you’re burning it again?”

“Shit!”

I didn’t try to hide my laughter this time. I laughed out loud, pressing my hand to my stomach as I gripped the edge of the counter. This was the very first imperfection I’d seen in Brantley Cooper, and it was both wonderful and curious.

Wonderful because he’d been almost too perfect until now.

Curious, because how had he kept himself and two other people alive if he was burning pasta?

“Stop laughing at me.” He poured the sauce from the other pan into the pasta. “I swear, I’m not a culinary idiot.”

“You can’t work your stove!”

“That’s a simple matter of electronic semantics.”

“Electronic semantics, my ass! It’s a simple matter of male impatience. And you’re still burning the pasta!”

“Fucking hell!”

“Oh god, move.” I shoved him out of the way, literally plucking the spoon from his hand and shifting in front of him. I pulled the pan off the burner and stirred it then, scraping the pasta off the bottom of the pan. “Sauce.”

Brantley slid past me, his hand brushing my lower back as he went. I ignored it the best I could, if we considered the fact I was biting the inside of my cheek and avoiding his eyes.

He put the sauce into the pan, his chest brushing against my arm as I put it back onto the burner. I cleared my throat and stirred, mixing it all into the pasta and chicken carefully. The creamy, white sauce splattered as I lost my hold on the spoon, and I winced, screwing my face up as it spat at me.

Brantley laughed. “Painting…cooking…it’s all relative for you, isn’t it?”

“Shut up,” I muttered, wiping my forehead.

He leaned over and swiped his thumb along my cheekbone. “There. Now it’s all gone.”

I blushed and turned off the burner. “It’s done.” I stepped back from the stove and went back to the table.

He side-eyed me with a half-smile as he took over, pulling two plates from the cupboard closest to him.

I turned away, looking out of the window as he served it up. This was exactly why I hadn’t wanted to have dinner with him—this attraction.

It was undeniable. For us both. It was the elephant in the room every time our eyes met, and it was getting harder and harder to hide my reactions whenever we touched.

The problem was, I’d screwed all my own attempts at putting distance between us. I was sitting on the wall that divided professional and personal, one leg on each side, staring down the line until it disappeared.