Fire Me Up

by Kimberly Kincaid

  Teagan slid from her spot across from him at the counter, all swaying hips and dare me bravado as she moved next to him and curled her fingers around the handles of the stockpot. “I’m sure it’s good then.”

  “It is. What are you doing?”

  One fiery brow popped. “No lifting. Where do you want this?”

  She was close enough for him to catch the warm scent of rosemary riding the air around her, and okay, this was going to be an exercise in self-restraint.

  “Front burner’s fine.” Adrian stepped back as she slid the stockpot over the burner grate with a muted scrape. “Might as well do the other one now, too.” He filled a second, larger stockpot with water from the sink before stepping back to let Teagan angle it over an adjacent burner. But as soon as the task was done, she retreated to her spot at the breakfast bar, clearly wanting no part of the kitchen unless it was absolutely necessary.

  “It sounds like your nonna was a great lady,” Teagan said, her voice soft yet serious. “You must miss her.”

  “Yeah.”

  Nonna’s ancient kitchen in Brooklyn, with the harvest gold refrigerator circa 1972 and the lovingly worn Formica countertops, flashed through Adrian’s mind’s eye, the image fresh as loaves of bread on the windowsill. The pang in his chest told him to shut up, that he was supposed to be making her dinner, and revealing all his down-deep feelings like this wasn’t part of the deal. But the look on Teagan’s face, along with how much she seemed to hate cooking because of her mother, struck him with startling clarity.

  She needed to believe something good could come out of the kitchen, and he had the power to show her.

  “My biological mother left me on the front steps of a church in Queens when I was nine days old,” Adrian said, the words surprisingly easy in his mouth. “Family Services tried to find her, but in a city like New York, it was wasted effort. Clearly, she didn’t want to be found, so I became a ward of the state.”

  Teagan didn’t say anything, but a flicker of understanding lit her expression, and it pulled more of the story right on out of him.

  “I was almost adopted twice. The first time things fell through, I was still a baby, so I don’t remember any of what happened, and nobody ever told me the details. But the second time was . . . different.” He swallowed hard, bracing for the inevitable pity party that came whenever people heard a story like his.

  But Teagan just said, “How old were you?”

  “Six. I lived with the family for about a month. But I had trouble getting used to having a permanent home after all that time in the system.”

  “It must not be easy, being placed after six years of living in foster homes.”

  Damn, her matter-of-fact demeanor and see-everything eyes were going to upend him, they really were. “Yeah, but I wouldn’t even unpack my clothes, let alone play with the other kids in the neighborhood or go to school. I kept thinking I’d wake up and Family Services would tell me I had to go somewhere else, so I just kept to myself, you know? Waiting.”

  “What happened?” Teagan asked.

  “The couple eventually decided they wanted a kid with no ‘adjustment issues,’ so they sent me back into the system.”

  This time she flinched. “God, Adrian, I’m so sorry.”

  He stemmed her apology with a wave, twisting the thick knobs on the cooktop. The telltale click-click-click of the gas burner popped against his nerves, but it was quickly followed by the whoosh of dancing blue flames that always calmed him.

  “I’m not. If that stuff hadn’t happened, I wouldn’t have ended up living with my nonna. And if she hadn’t adopted me, I never would’ve figured out where I really belong.”

  “She taught you how to make this?” Teagan pointed to the cooktop, leaning in close enough for Adrian to see the genuine interest playing over her features.

  “My nonna could make gnocchi with her eyes closed, literally. She taught me how to do more than just taste food to know whether or not I’d gotten it right. For her, it was all about the feel of it under her hands, the smells . . . the whole experience mattered, start to finish.”

  “My mother used to be so serious about cooking. I mean, there was no doubt she loved it. But I think she took it as more of a personal challenge than a labor of actual love.”

  Ah. Well that explained where the stubborn came from. “Nonna took cooking seriously too, just in a different way. For her, it was about listening to the food. Really letting it nurture her and the people she cooked for.”

  “Yeah.” Teagan’s eyes went wide for a single breath before slamming shut, and when she reopened them, they were brimming over with don’t touch. “That was a bit of a foreign concept in my house.”

  “You want a glass of wine?”

  “What?” She blinked, but no way was he going to let go of distracting her now. Plus, if anything could divert her attention and make her relax it was a bottle of wine and a kickass meal.

  “Call it an exercise in relaxation. Are you in?” He put just enough mustard on the words to make them a dare, knowing she’d bite. But her stress was going to swallow her whole if she didn’t offload some of it. Teagan wouldn’t last three days, let alone three more weeks, at the pace she’d been carving out.

  She paused. “Wine’s not really my thing, remember?”

  “Mmm. You’ll like this.” Adrian watched the flare grow in her eyes as he slid a bottle of merlot from the adjacent pantry, returning to the work space to unearth a corkscrew from a drawer. “Come on, I’ll even let you uncork it. What do you say?”

  Teagan unfolded her curves-and-attitude frame from the bar stool, but she didn’t hesitate to reenter the kitchen. Her movements challenged him right back as she curled her fingers around the bottle, easing the sharp, silver point of the corkscrew into the cork without looking.

  “I say you’re awfully presumptuous.”

  It didn’t come out sounding like a compliment, and heat stirred low in Adrian’s gut before heading south. He knew that daring her into the kitchen, even with good intentions, was a bad plan. Experience told him putting two volatile things too close together only meant they were bound to explode. But then she looked up at him with a slow and sexy smile on her decadent mouth, and damn it, part of him wanted to watch her ignite.

  “If you want to insult me, you’re going to have to do better than that. I’ve heard the presumptuous thing once or twice before.” Adrian pulled the wineglasses he’d borrowed from the Double Shot from a cupboard, placing them just far enough away on the counter that Teagan would have to take a step closer to pour.

  If he was going to get her into the kitchen, he might as well go all freaking in.

  The cork gave a soft pop as she released it from the mouth of the bottle, and she inclined her head at him in thought. “Okay. How does pompous ass suit you?”

  Damn, he wanted this woman more than he wanted his next freaking breath. “Barely lukewarm, Red.”

  “Egotistical cretin?” Teagan asked, the words sounding strangely seductive in her throaty voice as she cut the space between them to pour.

  “Ah, getting warmer.”

  Her hip brushed against his, ever so slightly as she leaned in to place the bottle on the counter, pulling back to return to the breakfast bar. Adrian let out a breath, sliding one of the glasses toward her before lifting the other to take a sip. The rich notes of the wine slid across his palate and lingered, heady and smooth on his tongue, and he edged closer to the counter, watching her.

  “Getting warmer, huh? Hmm.” Teagan tapped a finger against her lips in thought before brightening. “Narcissistic muttonhead,” she offered, folding her hands in front of her with an angelic smile.

  Adrian’s laugh came from deep in his chest. “Well done. Now you’re hot.”

  The corners of Teagan’s strawberry-red mouth twitched upward into a smirk that sparked through his blood, and she nodded down at the stove. “And it looks like you’re boiling.”

  Understatement. Of. The. Year.
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br />   “Okay, wine boy,” Teagan said, holding on to her smile as she took the glass of merlot in her hand. “Do I need to do anything highbrow before I drink this?”

  “Hold the glass up to your lips and breathe in first,” Adrian said, moving to gather more ingredients from the narrow pantry by the refrigerator.

  “You’re always this bossy in the kitchen, aren’t you?”

  He didn’t hesitate. “Yes.” She scoffed softly, but he continued before she could work up a smart comment. “In order to enjoy a good glass of wine, you have to do more than taste it. You’ve got to gather it in and make it a part of you.”

  Teagan made a face. “What if I hate it? Then I won’t want to make it a part of me.”

  Adrian put the bag of flour he’d retrieved from the pantry on the counter and nudged the boiling pot, watching the potatoes gently rock and nestle together. “If you hate it, that’s fine. But you should try it the right way before you decide.”

  She ran a finger around the base of the glass. “I guess I never thought of wine, or any food, really, as something to take my time with.”

  “Don’t feel bad. A lot of people rush through what they eat and drink—they don’t take time to smell it, to feel it in their mouths, to really experience it.” He drew his wineglass up to his face, letting it brush against the rough stubble on his chin before inhaling. “Taste is the last sense you use on the things you eat and drink, although everyone thinks it’s the only one.”

  Her expression softened, surprising him. “Okay, I’ll humor you. You want me to just pretend I’m taking a sip, only smell it instead?”

  “It’s not milk with a questionable expiration date.” He gave in to his satisfied smile and leaned in closer, until only a scant stretch of Formica countertop and his dwindling willpower separated their bodies. “Don’t just smell it. Breathe it in. Experience it.”

  Teagan’s laugh caught him like a sucker punch to the sternum, but she didn’t pull back to reclaim the space between them. “‘Experience it,’” she repeated, dropping her eyes seductively to the glass.

  “Yeah,” Adrian managed, trying to right himself. Damn it, she was killing him with those endlessly long legs parted over the bar stool just wide enough to make him wonder what else she could do with them. “Let it take care of you a little.” He motioned to her glass, knowing his words would hit home.

  “Screw you,” she muttered, but he caught the twist of her sardonic smile as she raised the rim of her wineglass and inhaled. Her eyes shuttered closed, cinnamon-colored lashes sweeping low over her face, and even though his self-protective instinct screamed at him not to, he impulsively moved closer.

  “See? You can smell the flavors before they even hit your tongue. This merlot is rich, complex. And it tells you all about itself before you drink it.”

  Teagan kept her eyes closed and breathed in again, her bottom lip pressing slightly against the rim of her glass, and she gave a small nod and sigh combination that shot straight to his cock.

  “Breathing it in enhances the experience. It makes you want it more.” Adrian braced himself against the narrow stretch of countertop between them, palms hot on the cool surface. He leaned in close enough to feel the heat coming off of her, to smell the earthy scent of rosemary where her neck met her ear. The irony of it hit him full-on.

  Just like the wine, when he breathed her in, it only made him want her more.

  “So go ahead,” Adrian said. “Drink.”

  She raised the glass, tipping the ruby liquid along its curve until it reached her lips. Adrian watched her, completely entranced by the newness of the experience on her face, as she took a sip and cradled the glass in her palm. A drop of wine lingered on her bottom lip, staining it a perfect, sensual red. God, Adrian wanted to have that bottom lip for breakfast, to trace it with his tongue and relish the flavor of her in his mouth. He didn’t just want to kiss her, but to taste her, to savor her.

  To have her.

  But then her eyes blinked open and she lowered the glass.

  “I’m not sure about the whole deep experience thing, but the wine is nice,” she admitted, taking another sip.

  “Told you.” Adrian scooped the potatoes from the stockpot with a slotted spoon, letting the heat from the steam wash over his face. He’d been fighting the desire to kiss Teagan again ever since he’d botched things that stupid morning he’d first taught her to cook, only this time, he wanted to dive into her and never come up for air.

  This time, if he kissed her, he wasn’t going to stop.

  Without fanfare, he scooped one of the potatoes into a tea towel on the counter. After a second’s worth of awkward fumbling, he got a decent grip on it with his left fingers, although his incapacitated thumb itched to get in on the action. Keeping the towel-wrapped potato steady as best he could by cradling it between his fingers and chest, he started to peel it with quick precision. Long ribbons of light brown skin, thin enough to see through, snaked over the tea towel as he worked, and the task helped him focus.

  “How come you didn’t peel those before you boiled them? I mean, isn’t it easier that way, so you don’t burn your fingers?” Teagan leaned forward on her elbows, watching him start on the second potato with an inquisitive stare. Damn, she didn’t miss anything.

  “It changes the starch content if you boil them that way. Plus, when they’re hot, the peels slide off easier. Pretty helpful when you’ve only got one and a half hands.”

  “Oh. That was probably a stupid question, huh?” Teagan didn’t look sheepish very often, or, okay, ever, but hell, if it didn’t light him up like the Fourth of July right now.

  “No such thing as a stupid question.”

  Teagan eyed him over the rim of her wineglass and smirked. “Does this make me look fat?”

  Adrian finished peeling the last potato, shooting her a disapproving look even though he knew it wouldn’t stick. “Okay. Almost no such thing as a stupid question.”

  He scooped just enough flour into a soft mound on the counter, giving it a gentle roll with the backs of his knuckles to create a well. Going through the familiar motions, even without the full use of his left hand, sent another wave of calm through his chest.

  “You don’t measure anything,” Teagan noted, more statement than question, and Adrian nodded in agreement.

  “After a while, you start to recognize when things are right. A lot of it is by feel and taste. But I’ve made this enough to know it by heart.”

  Holding one of the still-steaming potatoes in the thinly textured weave of the tea towel, Adrian hooked his left fingers beneath the handle of a bell grater. Slowly, he worked the potato over the holes, watching as the cream-colored flesh left a trail of steam on the stainless steel. He moved in brisk, even strokes, watching the curls of yellow-white potato drop into the well like confetti. “So even though we don’t have a whole lot of ingredients here, we still have to make sure that they play nicely together.”

  “Playing nicely doesn’t seem to suit you.”

  “And yet that doesn’t bother you,” Adrian flipped back, working the second potato into fine shreds.

  One red-gold brow lifted. “I don’t play nicely either.”

  Right. Because just what he needed was another reason to want her.

  “Well, you’d better learn quick, because you’re up.”

  Teagan’s shoulders lifted in a slim line of surprise, and she pulled back from the counter to stare at him. “You can’t be serious.”

  “When it comes to food, I’m always serious.” Adrian tipped his head at the counter, dividing his expression between trust me and I dare you. Damn, she was full to the brim with tension and tired, and all he wanted was to get her to relax. “Come on. I can’t do this part alone, and I’ll walk you through it. I’m a chef. It’s not like I’m going to steer you wrong.”

  For a second, she didn’t move, and hell, maybe pushing her had been a bad plan. But then she gave a barely perceptible nod and slid from her bar stool to round t
he corner into the kitchen.

  “Fine. Let’s do this before I change my mind.”

  Adrian turned to get an egg and some butter out of the refrigerator, trapping his satisfied smile between his teeth. “The trick here is to get the ingredients incorporated just right, and the best way to do that is to go by feel.”

  Returning to the counter, he closed his fingers around the smooth contours of the egg, giving it a one-handed tap-and-break into the flour well.

  Teagan scoffed. “Show-off.”

  But Adrian kept steady with the food, nice and easy so she would, too. “It’s important to go slow—you don’t want to maul it, or else the dough turns out too tough.” He reached forward for a pinch of salt from the covered bowl on the counter, sprinkling it over the well before stepping back to gesture her into the space.

  Her lips parted. “You want me to use my hands?”

  “Yup. It’s just like the wine, only instead of breathing it in, you’re letting it talk to you by feeling it.”

  “I hope you have the pizza guy on speed dial, because I’m totally going to screw this up,” she muttered, but she sank her fingers into the mixture anyway. Her brow tugged down in fierce concentration, but Adrian countered it by stepping in behind her.

  “You’re not going to screw this up.” Caging her body gently with his own, he put his right hand over hers to guide her through the motions. He worked his hand—and hers—over the mixture, first one pass, then another. “Take a breath. Relax, and let the food do its thing.”

  “Like that?” Teagan asked, her back melting into his chest with each move of their hands. She tipped her chin toward her shoulder to look up at him in question, and he sucked in a breath full of rosemary and total, undiluted want.

  “Yeah,” he said. “Like that.”

  Slowly, the ingredients began to find their way together, and a ball of dough the color of spring sunshine began to take shape between Teagan’s palms, smooth and pliable. Her shoulders rolled, low and easy against his body, her breath coming in soft pulls as she looked down at their entwined hands. “God, that’s amazing.”