“The club is fine,” I assured her, reaching for my glass of wine and taking a sip. “T had to leave work early tonight. And I wasn’t going to get much done without her, so I came home. Only… I don’t know what to do with myself when I’m not working.”

“Really? I am an expert at being home. I’d never leave if I didn’t have to.”

“Yeah? What’s your favorite thing about home?”

“It’s mine. I never had anything that was just mine growing up. And I had even less when I was living on the streets. Once I could finally afford my own place, I really dug my heels in. Every inch of it is how I want it. Except the kitchen. The only things I care about in there are my coffee maker and the fridge for storing my takeaway leftovers.”

“You never make anything? Boxed mac & cheese, nothing?”

“Nothing. The fanciest I get is pouring hot water into instant oatmeal packets.”

“Did you never want to learn?”

“I wouldn’t even know where to start.”

“Come here.”

“Oh, no. I’m not in a lesson mood.”

“You’re not ready for a lesson,” I said, watching her struggle to keep her lips in a straight line. “You are strictly here for observation,” I said, grabbing her hand to pull her into the kitchen.

Then, before she could even think to object, I reached down, grabbed her behind the knees, and popped her up on the island.

“And maybe a little bit for decoration,” I said, letting my gaze slide over her before turning to mix the garlic and onions one more time, stirring in the wine and letting it burn off.

“Okay, that was kind of hot,” Saff said as I shook the flaming pan, making me shoot her a smirk over my shoulder. “Oh, my God. Focus. You’re going to set yourself on fire.”

“Worried about me, darlin’?” I asked, lowering my head, then adding in the heavy cream and spices.

“Yeah. Who’s going to feed me if you’re in the burn unit somewhere?”

“Your concern for my well-being is touching,” I said, moving to stand in front of her, my body pressed against her knees as I reached past her for my glass of wine.

Her pretty eyes were on me as I took a sip, gaze lowering to my throat as I swallowed.

Her legs parted, and I wasted no time sliding between, putting down my glass so I could trail my hands up the sides of her thighs.

“Are you going to mess up dinner?” she asked, draining her whiskey, then putting the glass down with a quiet click.

“It’s simmering,” I said, leaning down to press my lips into her neck. Her head tilted, silently inviting more. So that’s what I gave her.