“Ah, shit,” I say again, dropping to my knees to clean up the mess. “I’ll buy you another one. I’m so clumsy.”
“Please, don’t worry about it,” he says, crouching down beside me. “It was just a cooking wine. Nothing expensive.”
We both reach for a large shard of glass at the same time. Our heads bump together with a dull thud.
“Ouch,” we both say in unison.
I rub my forehead, my face heating up with humiliation. I am a disaster. I am a walking, talking catastrophe.
“It’s just cooking wine?” I ask, trying to focus on anything other than the throbbing in my skull.
“Yeah. For a reduction,” he explains. He reaches out to help me stand up, his hand gripping my forearm with surprising strength. He pauses, looking at me closely. “You’re Jude’s sister… Amanda, right?”
The name throws me off. “Amber,” I correct him softly. “It’s Amber.”
“Right. Amber,” he repeats, as if testing the taste of it. He gives me a small, apologetic smile. “I’m Elijah. But people call me Eli.”
He holds his hand out.
I stare at it for a second. It’s a large hand, his fingers long and slender, marked here and there with small scars—burn marks, maybe? From a kitchen?
When I take his hand, it’s incredibly warm. A tingle runs up my arm that has nothing to do with the cold. His grip is firm but gentle.
“Eli,” I say. And then it clicks. The glasses. The hair. The kitchen burns. “You work at Blade & Butter. You’re the pastry chef.”
He looks pleasantly surprised. “I am. You’ve been to the restaurant?”
“I’ve seen you around. Small town.” I pull my hand back, feeling suddenly self-conscious. “I work at the flower shop.”
He nods, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Knightly Blooms. I’ve bought herbs there before. Nice place.”
“It is nice.”
He leans in slightly, his expression turning concerned. “Are you okay? You seem a little… shaken.”
He reaches out, his fingers brushing against my forehead, checking the spot where we bumped heads. His touch is electric, sending a jolt through my system.
His scent washes over me—vanilla bean, burnt sugar, something warm and sweet like fresh bread. It’s delicious. It’s the most comforting thing I’ve smelled in days.
I freeze under his touch. My heart rate, already spiked from the phone call and the near-relapse, kicks up another notch.
“I’m fine,” I lie, stepping back slightly. His hand drops. “Really. Just a long morning.”
He doesn’t look entirely convinced, but he lets it go. He looks down at the puddle of wine. “I really am sorry about the mess. And the scare.”
“It’s my fault. I wasn’t looking.” I look down at my own hand and realize there’s blood welling up on my palm. A shard of glass must have cut me when I reached down. “Oh.”
He sees it too. “You’re bleeding.”
“I can clean it up,” I say quickly, grabbing a napkin from my pocket and pressing it to the cut. “It’s nothing. Really.”
“Let me help you with the glass at least,” he insists, kneeling back down.
“I’ve got it,” I say, dropping to my knees again to prove I’m capable.
We both move for the same large piece of the bottle.
Thud.
