“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.