Trapped With My Teacher

To my surprise, Tony starts pulling out spices and sauces I didn’t even notice when I did inventory earlier. It’s not like those spices add any calories to a meal, so I didn’t bother to note their nutritional value. But he uncaps a few and splashes them across the chicken, and suddenly the smell wafting through this narrow kitchen isn’t boring anymore. In fact, it smells almost… good.

“What are you doing?” I ask. Unconsciously, I lean a little closer to him.

He casts me a sideways, knowing smirk, then gestures for me to hand him one of the spices. I pass it over. “You might be the survivalist, Corina, but you still cook like a student. Try adding a little spice to your life once in a while.”

My cheeks flush once more, and not from the heat of the stove as he tosses the chicken. “I have spice!” I protest. “I do lots of spicy things. Just not cooking at home.”

“Cooking can be fun when it’s not only for yourself,” he points out with a casual smile.

My eyes narrow. I know he’s not married. Every girl in class made sure to research that the first day we walked in and saw him smirking up there by the blackboard. “Why? Do you enjoy cooking for your many hookups, Professor?”

“Not as often as I’d like.” His gaze darts to mine, catches my eye and holds it. “I enjoy cooking for two.”

“Well lucky you, now’s your chance to change that,” I say without thinking. Then my eyes widen when I realize what I just said. Enjoy cooking for your many hookups?

For his part, Tony just laughs. “Lucky me indeed,” he says, and I expect him to follow it up with some sarcastic comment about being trapped in this cabin with his least favorite student. But he doesn’t. He just turns back to the stove and keeps cooking.

A few minutes later, he dumps the chicken onto a plate and passes it to me. Our fingertips brush again, and I bite my lip to contain the gasp that wants to escape. Because fucking hell, the electric sparks that set off in my belly every time our skin touches…

I clamp that down. Accept the plate and try a bite.

Holy shit.

“Good?” Tony’s watching me with a knowing smirk, not having tasted any of his own yet.

“You must have a lot of hookups to cook for,” I say when I’ve swallowed.

He laughs aloud, then picks up his own plate. Takes a single bite and grimaces a little. “You must not be treated properly by your hookups, Corina. This is hardly impressive.”

“College boys aren’t exactly known for their culinary skills,” I reply, swallowing another huge bite of the chicken.

“And college boys are still to your taste?” He doesn’t meet my eye, not now. He’s studying his plate, a little too carefully. But I can hear the unasked question in his voice. The thin ice we’re treading on.

Much as I know I ought to back away from it, I don’t want to. I want to skate right out there and fall through, thin ice be damned. “Usually,” I say, my voice lighthearted. Smooth. “Lately, though, I’m starting to think about trying more complex dishes.”

He glances up at that, startled, but I’m already moving away, into the living room. It’s too cold in the kitchen.

Tony follows me, and when I ask him to, kicks shut the kitchen door behind him. Now we can confine what heat we have to the living quarters, at least.

For a few minutes, we eat in silence. I remain standing, refusing to sit by him on the couch. Not when it’s so small I’d practically be in his lap. I just keep eating to distract myself. Flirting aside, both of us are clearly hungry, which causes me my first slight pang of worry about this situation. One glance out the window shows me the storm hasn’t let up. If anything, it’s gotten worse, fat flakes of snow building up along the windowsill. There’s not a lot of light outside, with all the clouds, and with us being so far up here in the mountains. From what I can see, though, the snow has already built up at least a few inches.

“The plows will start clearing the roads in the morning,” Tony says, reading my mind. “No use worrying about it now.”

He’s right. I finish the rest of my meal in a few bites. “I just wish we had some kind of phone signal. Some way to figure out how long we’re going to be holed up here.”

“I think it’s safe to say at least overnight.” He checks his phone again, shows me the screen. Still no service. Then he scoops up our empty plates and disappears into the kitchen a moment. When he returns, he’s got a fresh stack of wood with him.