Spitfire in Love (Chasing Red 3)

I’d forgotten that this pan was metal—what was I thinking buying this crap?—and that I needed a pot holder to hold it.

I was too busy watching her, too busy smiling at her—I was forgetting every damn thing.

“You okay?” She ran to the sink, turned the faucet on. “Come here, you poor baby.”

“This is all your fault.” I scowled at her.

“How is this my fault?” She glared back.

“You like to argue with me all the time.”

“No I don’t,” she shot back. “You’re the one who likes to argue with me all the fucking time.”

I raised my brows at her. “See what I mean?”

She gave me the death stare for a few seconds. “You make me want to fucking curse all the time. Why are you so argumentative?”

I raised an eyebrow. She rolled her eyes and beckoned me to her. Still scowling, I stopped in front of the sink. I watched as she held onto my wrist, placed my throbbing hand under the blast of cold water. Her fingers were long and slender, and I wasn’t sure which felt good—her touch or the cold water on my skin.

It wasn’t even a burn. I barely touched the hot part of the handle. I removed my hand from the water and touched her mouth with my thumb, spreading the water onto her bottom lip. It trickled down her chin. We stared into each other’s eyes, savoring this moment of aloneness together. I leaned down and kissed her lips. Sucked the water from her chin.

“You’re so good at that,” she said languorously.

“At what?”

“Kissing me.”

“Want another one?”

She blinked slowly. “Food,” she said loudly, stepping away. “Kiss later.”

I smirked and turned back to the counter, at the mess we’d made.

“We can just boil them,” she suggested.

“But then we have to peel the shells off,” I said.

“I know, right?”

We looked at each other again. She bit her lip, her eyes shining with laughter.

“We don’t know what the hell we’re doing,” she said, wiping her eyes on my shirt. “And it’s fine because it feels great to be here with you right now.” She sniffed. “I’m still hungry though.”

“All right. Sit over there and be quiet.”

She gave me her serious face, not letting it pass that I was telling her what to do again, but she couldn’t follow through and laughed again.

“It better be good, Bigfoot.”

She hopped onto the kitchen island. I washed the pan and wiped it dry. Put it on the stove. I threw out the egg mixture we’d both messed up and grabbed the carton of eggs. I cracked them carefully this time.

“How did you survive without cooking your meals?” she asked.

“Takeout. Lean meat, sandwiches mostly. Fresh veggies, fruits.”

There weren’t any eggshell bits this time. I scrambled them with a fork and poured the mixture in the pan. The satisfying crackle made me smile. I popped a couple pieces of bread in the toaster.

I noticed she hadn’t said anything for a while. I looked over my shoulder and found her watching me. There was sadness in her eyes.