“I’ll just keep watching you,” I murmured. I bent down too, my elbow hitting the counter, and my cheek in my hand.
I’d thought about music before, idly, that we coulda used some, but now I was thankful I hadn’t suggested any. It was enough to hear his calm breaths and the faint sound of the knife sliding through the potato.
“I don’t think so.” When he’d finished three of them, he said it was my turn. “I’ll grab a couple baking sheets—you get started.”
Fuck.
For having watched his hands so closely, one might think I knew exactly how to hold the knife.
I didn’t.
I had to get closer too. I didn’t know how he’d managed to cut with such precision without eyeballing the potato two inches away, but that was going to be my approach. Okay, maybe not two inches. Eight or nine.
Carefully, slowly, holding my breath, I cut into the potato and stopped before I was all the way through. The middle would be easier, I hoped. The ends were rounded and narrower, and it was difficult to know when to stop.
A breath gusted out of me. Next slice—two or three millimeters thick.
Slow and steady wins the race, right?
After King set two baking sheets on the counter, he leaned closer to inspect my work, and I was granted another whiff of his masculine scent.
“That looks great,” he complimented. “Continue exactly like that and we can have perfect Hasselback potatoes by next week.”
I cut straight through that motherfucking potato, clanked the knife against the board, and straightened up to scowl at the chef.
He was doing his best not to laugh, failing miserably. “Well, you weren’t supposed to cut through it.”
“I fuckin’ swear,” I grated. “You had to ruin it!”
While laughing even harder, he closed the distance and guided me back into position, and I sorta checked out. His hands were on me, one on my back, the other along my side. He was touchy-feely, wasn’t he? Was it a Southern thing?
“It’s time for Ghost. I’ll show you.” Mr. Chuckles sidled up slightly behind me so he could line up his right arm alongside mine and adjust my grip on the knife. “You’re a musician. Camden told me you play the piano.”
“Among others,” I muttered, wondering what he was getting at. It would be close to impossible to concentrate if he was going to stay where he was. I felt his body heat through my T-shirt.
“So you should be good with your fingers,” he said.
“You have no fucking idea.” Yeah, I went there, despite that his tone indicated he was only talking about…well, slicing potatoes.
King exhaled a chuckle but made no further comment. “Then use that. But instead of knowing exactly how and when to hit the keys, you turn the knife into an extension of your fingers. Once you can control the knife properly…”
I’d know exactly how far it could go. Understood.
I readjusted my grip on the knife, but I caught the shake of his head in my periphery when I slipped my index finger onto the back of the blade.
“Your finger will go numb after ten minutes,” he told me. “Use your thumb. It’s stronger.”
Fine.
I took a deep breath and did my best to ignore his close proximity.
“You can steer the knife with the heel of your hand.” He gently brushed his thumb against the fleshy part below my little finger. “Your grip will be the tightest between your forefinger and thumb. It makes the knife easier to maneuver.”
If he said so.
Christ, he was close. His chin almost at my shoulder.
“Remember to breathe, Anthony.”
Right.
As I exhaled, I put pressure on the knife and stopped a few millimeters before it went through. And I catalogued the way my arm felt right at that point, then moved the potato just a little bit and sliced again.
It was kinda working. They were nowhere near as good as his results, but it was definitely an improvement.
“You’re doing great,” he murmured.
His praise heated me up, and for a quick second, I wondered what it would be like to have him call me a good boy. Which, just the following second, made me feel like an idiot. I was over forty, for chrissakes. I shoulda grown outta that shit ages ago.
Three potatoes later, I decided I was done for now. Improvement or not, they didn’t look awesome, and I wanted to spare the guests tonight my handiwork.
“You do the rest,” I said quietly.
“All right.”
I felt instantly bereft when he moved away. His last touch was another brush up my back, and a shiver tingled its way down my spine.
My mouth was completely dry, so I drained half my beer.
Chapter 5
Multiplied
Half a minute into “Multiplied,” the music faded except for Sylvia on the organ, and I delivered the drawn-out chorus with only the choir as backup. I heard Matt and Maria, an octave higher than my own singing, and how the crowd went nuts.
Then it was Nicky’s turn to shine. My brother plucked at his guitar as I did my best to seek out faces in the sea of people. Two faces, in particular.
Fitting with a song about surrender, ’cause it was the only thing I felt.
Today was playing out a lot differently than I’d anticipated.
An hour and a half before everyone was due to arrive, we’d finished meal prep. I’d stepped outside to call my motel and say I’d be checking in late, and I’d showered in one of their guest rooms on the first floor.
The ranch had four guest rooms in total, and each one had its own patio door, something I discovered when I walked out there after my shower. It led to the same view, the same deck, the same pool as before, and it was another thing that made me wonder about King’s comment regarding entertaining guests. That many guest rooms and they’d obviously put a lot of thought into
