“Actually, I was informed to hide that.”
She looks over her shoulder and glares at me. “If you know what’s good for you, you won’t.”
I follow her, then rummage through the fridge for the meat I brought. It’ll go bad if we don’t eat it soon. “Do you like chicken fettuccini Alfredo?”
“Is that pasta?” she asks, leaning against the island.
Turning to look at her, I furrow my brows. “Are you serious?”
“What?” She shrugs. “I don’t eat a lot of pasta.” I tilt my head at her. “Okay, fine. I never eat pasta.”
“Guess that means you’re about to have the best meal of your life,” I tell her, gloating. “Wash your hands.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m not making this alone. Time for you to learn how to cook, woman.”
She sighs and goes to the sink, then suds up her hands. “Don’t get your hopes up.”
I chuckle at how she exaggerates her inability to cook and grab all the ingredients for dinner. After I place the box of pasta and chicken breasts on the counter, I grab a knife and cutting board.
“Alright, you’re in charge of the chicken. Cut off the fat, then slice it into long pieces. Think you can manage that?”
“I guess we’ll see.” She steps closer to the counter and opens the package. I hold back a smile when she grabs the chicken breast and cringes. Carefully, she places it on the cutting board as if it’s going to jump out of her hands. “This is really gross.”
“Dry it with a paper towel first,” I tell her.
Cami does what I say, and I’m amused by how helpless she looks. You’d think she was dealing with a live animal by the way she’s holding it. With her back to my chest, I lean into her ear. “Don’t worry, it won’t bite ya.”
“Not funny,” she deadpans.
I place my hands on her shoulders, and she shivers. “I have faith in you.”
She inhales sharply, and I release her so I can prepare the sauce. “Wanna learn how to make homemade Alfredo sauce?”
Cami looks over at me, unamused. “Sure, why not?”
Chuckling, I grab the butter, heavy cream, garlic cloves, parmesan cheese, and parsley. Then I tell her what I’m doing as I do it. After I melt the butter in the saucepan, I add the cream, then let it simmer.
“You wanna whisk it?” I ask after I check the sauce, not wanting it to burn.
She looks over her shoulder. “Do what?” Before I can respond, she drops the knife. “Fuck!”
When I rush to her side, she’s holding her finger that’s bleeding. “Did you cut yourself?”
“Yes, and it hurts like a bitch.”
“Let me see it.” I grab her arm, turn her toward me, then grab a paper towel before holding her hand in mine. “Oh man. I think I’m gonna have to amputate.”
“Stop!” she whines. “That stupid knife is really sharp.”
“I think this was caused by the operator’s error,” I say, laughing. “It’s just a small cut. But I’ll grab some supplies and bandage you right up. You’ll be as good as new in no time.”
“You distracted me with your sauce.” She pouts, looking down at her finger as I race to the staircase. I’m full-on laughing as I grab the first-aid kit I packed from my bag and bring it back to her, cradling her hand.
“Raise your arm over your head to slow the bleed.” I stand in front of her and open the kit, finding the items I need to play doctor.
After a moment, I grab her hand and inspect her finger again. “Let’s rinse it under some warm water for a second, and then I’ll clean it with an alcohol pad before putting some Neosporin and a Band-Aid on it.”
She nods, and I lead her to the sink, carefully placing her hand under the stream. She winces for a moment, then relaxes. It’s a baby cut, but I think it freaked her out more than anything.
Once it’s clean, I dry off her finger, then continue to help her. “There,” I say, meeting her eyes and pressing a soft kiss over the wound. “All better.”
She sucks in her lower lip, and I admire the way her freckles sprinkle over her face. Cami’s barely wearing any makeup, but she doesn’t need any because she’s a natural beauty.
“Thank you,” she says softly.
“You’re welcome.” I pat her hand before releasing it. “Perhaps I should take over this part, and you can stir the sauce.”
“You still want my help?”
“Of course I do. A deal is a deal, and it’s pretty hard to fuck up pasta.”
“Don’t underestimate me.” She snickers. “We just started, and I’m already injured.”
“Well, good thing battle wounds are sexy.” I flash her a wink, and I swear I catch her blushing. Cami would never admit it, but I think I’m getting to her the way she’s always got to me.
She continues to stir, and I show her how to make the pasta with my salt and oil trick so the water doesn’t boil over and the fettuccini doesn’t stick together. I bake some garlic bread, and soon, our meal is complete.
“Wow, this smells delicious,” she says as I set our plates on the table. “Even the bread.”
“Don’t hate on bread.”
“I’m not, but I don’t typically eat this stuff. It’ll probably put me in a carb coma.”
“Maybe it’ll force you to relax for a change.” I smirk, sitting across from her.
“What’s that mean?”
My smirk deepens. “Means you’re uptight.”
She narrows her eyes as she lifts her fork and stabs a piece of chicken. “I’m not uptight.”
I smile when her deadpan expression breaks, and she laughs at her own statement.
“If I get anything out of this situation, it’s gonna be to hear more of that sound come out of you.”
“You act as if I don’t know how to laugh.”
“Do you? All I heard from you growing up was ‘Go away, Elijah!’ followed by a door slamming in my face.” I cock my head, challenging her to deny it.
“Well, I’m not slamming doors now,” she says,
