'I know what a taco is!'
Before I could stop him, he strode past me into the house. At the end of the hall, he steered left. To the kitchen.
He went to the sink and ran the tap while scrubbing soap halfway up his arms. Apparently having made himself at home, he went to the pantry first, then browsed the fridge, bringing out items here and there-salsa, cheese, lettuce, a tomato. Then he dug through the drawers and found a knife.
I suspect I was halfway to panicking at the image of Patch holding a knife when something else caught my eye. I took two steps forward and squinted at my reflection in one of the skillets hanging from the pot rack. My hair! It looked like a giant tumbleweed had rolled on top of my head. I clapped a hand to my mouth.
Patch smiled. 'You come by your red hair naturally?'
I stared at him. 'I don't have red hair.'
'I hate to break it to you, but it's red. I could light it on fire and it wouldn't turn any redder.'
'It's brown.' So maybe I had the teeniest, tiniest, most infinitesimal amount of auburn in my hair. I was still a brunette. 'It's the lighting,' I said.
'Yeah, maybe it's the lightbulbs.' His smile brought up both sides of his mouth, and a dimple surfaced.
'I'll be right back,' I said, hurrying out of the kitchen.
I went upstairs and coaxed my hair into a ponytail. With that out of the way, I pulled my thoughts together. I wasn't entirely comfortable with the idea of Patch roaming freely through my house- armed with a knife. And my mom would kill me if she found out I'd invited Patch inside when Dorothea wasn't here.
'Can I take a rain check?' I asked upon finding him still hard at work in the kitchen two minutes later. I placed a hand on my stomach, signaling that it was bothering me. 'Queasy,' I said. 'I think it was the ride home.'
He paused in his chopping and looked up. 'I'm almost finished.'
I noticed he'd exchanged knives for a bigger-and sharper- blade.
As if he had a window to my thoughts, he held up the knife, examining it. The blade gleamed in the light. My stomach clenched.
'Put the knife down,' I instructed quietly.
Patch looked from me to the knife and back again. After a minute he laid it down in front of him. 'I'm not going to hurt you, Nora.'
'That's… reassuring,' I managed to say, but my throat was tight and dry.
He spun the knife, handle pointing toward me. 'Come here. I'll teach you how to make tacos.'
I didn't move. There was a glint to his eye that made me think I should be frightened of him… and I was. But that fright was equal part allure. There was something extremely unsettling about being near him. In his presence, I didn't trust myself.
'How about a… deal?' His face was bent down, shadowed, and he looked up at me through his lashes. The effect was an impression of trustworthiness. 'Help me make tacos, and I'll answer a few of your questions.'
'My questions?'
'I think you know what I mean.'
I knew exactly what he meant. He was giving me a glimpse into his private world. A world where he could speak to my mind. Again he knew exactly what to say, at exactly the right moment.
Without a word, I moved beside him. He slid the cutting board in front of me.
'First,' he said, coming behind me and placing his hands on the counter, just outside of mine, 'choose your tomato.' He dipped his head so his mouth was at my ear. His breath was warm, tickling my skin. 'Good. Now pick up the knife.'
'Does the chef always stand this close?' I asked, not sure if I liked or feared the flutter his closeness caused inside me.
'When he's revealing culinary secrets, yes. Hold the knife like you mean it.'
'Good.' Stepping back, he gave me a thorough twice-over, seemingly scrutinizing any imperfections-his eyes shifted up and down, here and there. For one unnerving moment, I thought I saw a secret smile of approval. 'Cooking isn't taught,' Patch said. 'It's inherent. Either you've got it or you don't. Like chemistry. You think you're ready for chemistry?'
I pressed the knife down through the tomato; it split in two, each half rocking gently on the cutting board. 'You tell me. Am I ready for chemistry?'
Patch made a deep sound I couldn't decipher and grinned.
After dinner Patch carried our plates to the sink. 'I'll wash, you dry.' Hunting through the drawers to the side of the sink, he found a dish towel and slung it playfully at me.
'I'm ready to ask you those questions,' I said. 'Starting with that night at the library. Did you follow me…'
I trailed off. Patch leaned lazily against the counter. Dark hair flipped out from under his ball cap. A smile tugged at his mouth. My thoughts dissolved and just like that, a new thought broke the surface of my mind.
I wanted to kiss him. Right now.
Patch arched his eyebrows. 'What?'
'Uh-nothing. Nothing at all. You wash, I'll dry.'
It didn't take long to finish the dishes, and when we had, we found ourselves cramped in the space near the sink. Patch moved to take the dish towel from me, and our bodies touched. Neither of us moved, holding to the fragile link that welded us together.
I stepped back first.
'Scared?' he murmured.
'No.'
'Liar.'
My pulse edged up a degree. 'I'm not scared of you.'
'No?'
I spoke without thinking. 'Maybe it's just that I'm scared of-' I cursed myself for even beginning the sentence. What was I supposed to say now? I was not about to admit to Patch that everything about him frightened me. It would be giving him permission to provoke me further. 'Maybe it's just that I'm scared of… of-'
'Liking me?'
Relieved that I didn't have to finish my own sentence, I automatically answered, 'Yes.' I realized too late what I'd confessed. 'I mean, no Definitely no. That is not what I was trying to say!'
Patch laughed softly.
'The truth is, part of me is definitely not comfortable around you,' I said.
'But?!
I gripped the counter behind me for support. 'But at the same time I feel a scar) attraction to you.'
Patch grinned.
'You are way too cocky,' I said, using my hand to push him back a step.
He trapped my hand against his chest and yanked my sleeve down past my wrist, covering my hand with it. Just as quickly, he did the same thing with the other sleeve. He held my shirt by the cuffs, my hands captured. My mouth opened in protest.
Reeling me closer, he didn't stop until I was directly in front of him. Suddenly he lifted me onto the counter. My face was level with his. He fixed me with a dark, inviting smile. And that's when I realized this moment had been dancing around the edge of my fantasies for several days now.
'Take off your hat,' I said, the words tumbling out before I could stop them.
He slid it around, the brim facing backward.
I scooted to the edge of the counter, my legs dangling one on either side of him. Something inside of me was telling me to stop-but I swept that voice to the far back of my mind.
He spread his hands on the counter, just outside my hips. Tilting his head to one side, he moved closer. His scent, which was all damp dark earth, overwhelmed me.
I inhaled two sharp breaths. No. This wasn't right. Not this, not with Patch. He was frightening. In a good way, yes. But also in a bad way. A very bad way.
'You should go,' I breathed. 'You should definitely go.'
