“It was.” June’s hands still for a moment, and her expression grows distant. “She died when I was fifteen. Cancer. But she made sure to teach me all her important recipes first.”
The casual way she mentions such a profound loss catches me off guard. To think my intended mate suffered such a great tragedy at such a young age… “I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay. It was a long time ago, but…” She shrugs, focusing on opening the can of tomatoes. “Some things you never really get over. But the recipes she left behind help. When I try out one I’venever made before, it’s almost like she’s still right there, teaching me things. Anyway…” June’s quick to focus on something else, turning to the stove and setting the heat to medium-low. “First rule of cooking: control your heat. Most beginners cook everything too hot and too fast.”
“That explains the smoke alarms.”
“Probably. Here, watch.” She adds oil to the pan, swirling it gently. “You want to warm the oil slowly, not blast it with high heat.”
I move to stand beside her, careful not to crowd but close enough to see what she’s doing. She’s so small next to me that I have to consciously mind my size, but she seems unbothered by the difference.
“Now garlic,” she says, adding minced cloves to the warming oil. “The smell will tell you when it’s ready. You want fragrant and golden, not brown and bitter.”
The scent begins to bloom almost immediately, rich and aromatic. “How do you know when it’s done?” I ask.
“Experience, mostly. But listen—” She tilts her head, and I hear the gentle sizzling. “It should sound happy, not angry. Angry cooking sounds like spitting and popping. Happy cooking sounds like… this.”
I find myself smiling at the description. “Happy cooking?”
“My mom’s term. She said you could tell how a dish would turn out by listening to it cook. Happy sounds mean good food.”
“As opposed to my violent cooking earlier.”
She laughs. “Yeah, very opposed.” She then adds the crushed tomatoes to the pan, and they sizzle satisfyingly. The scent that rises is fresh and bright.
“The trick is patience,” she says, stirring gently. “Let the flavors develop slowly. Don’t rush the process.”
I watch her work, memorizing every movement. There’s something almost ritualistic about the way she cooks: deliberate, careful, respectful of the ingredients.
“This is very different from hunting,” I observe.
“How so?”
“Hunting is about speed, precision, efficiency. Consuming, not tasting. This is…” I search for words. “Contemplative. Like meditation.”
“That’s exactly what it’s like.” After a few moments, June tastes the sauce with a clean spoon, considering, before dipping it back in and offering me a taste. I lean down to taste from the spoon she’s holding, gently touching her hand to steady it, and the simple contact sends electricity through my entire nervous system.
The sauce is perfect—bright, savory, with just enough garlic to make my taste buds sing—but all I can focus on is the way June’s pulse jumps under my fingertips where I’m touching her wrist.
“Good?” she asks, her voice slightly breathless.
“Very good,” I murmur, not moving away from her.
She quickly turns back to the sauce. “It just needs a little bit longer,” she says, keeping up this pretense of cooking lessons, even though we’re both clearly thinking about something else entirely. “See,” she continues, trying to keep her tone light. “Cooking’s all about patience.”
“I’m not known for my patience,” I admit.
“No? You seemed pretty patient with me when I was stuck in your web.” She then seems to realize what she’s said, and her cheeks flush a deep pink. “I mean—”
I don’t let her change the subject. “That was different.” I meet her eyes, letting her see the hunger there. “You were spread out perfectly, completely helpless, with the most interesting reactions. I could have spent hours figuring out exactly how to touch you.”
June’s breath catches, and I can smell the change in her scent and arousal mixing with awareness. “Hours?”
“Days,” I correct. “I wanted to learn every response, every preference. Map every sensitive spot until I knew exactly how to drive you wild. I only held back for fear of overwhelming you.”
“You were hardly overwhelming,” June says quietly, her eyes still fixed on the simmering sauce even as her cheeks grow redder.
“Oh? I suppose I shouldn’t hold back next time.” I say this with a smile and lean closer. “Tell me, June. When you were caught in my web, what were you thinking about?”
