I open the kit and pull out an alcohol wipe. I meet her eyes. “This is going to sting.”
“I can handle it,” she says, though I can feel her trembling slightly.
I dab the wipe against the cut. She flinches, the intake of breath hissing through her teeth, but she doesn’t pull away. I hate that I’m causing her more pain, even if it’s necessary.
“I’m sorry,” I say.
“Don’t be. It’s my own fault.”
I clean the dried blood away, revealing a shallow but long slice. It needs to be closed so it doesn’t open every time she uses her hand.
“So,” I start, tearing open a packet of antibiotic ointment with my teeth. “That wine I broke? It was actually going to be for a new dish that I’m working on. Lamb chops with a red wine and thyme reduction.”
She looks up from our hands to my face. She’s listening intently, her focus shifting from the pain to my words.
“Lamb chops?” she repeats.
“Yeah. We get these heritage breeds from a farm up north. The meat is incredible, but it needs something bold to cut through the richness.” I apply the ointment gently, smoothing it over the angry red line. “I sear the chops in a cast iron, get a really hard crust on them. Then I deglaze the pan with the wine, scraping up all those browned bits—the fond. That’s where the flavor lives. Add some garlic, a sprig of fresh thyme, let it reduce until it’s syrupy. I like to experiment with the spices I grow, just to test out the quality.”
I watch her as I speak. Her lips are slightly parted, her gaze fixed on mine. Her lips look incredibly soft, even when she worries the lower one between her teeth. She has a mouth that seems designed for smiling, even though she hasn’t done much of that today.
“It sounds… really good,” she says.
“It is. If done right.” I place a sterile pad over the cut and start wrapping it with the medical tape. My fingers brush against her wrist, right over the tattoo. “The wine adds this depth that balances the fat of the lamb. It’s a classic combination for a reason.”
I secure the tape and smooth it down with my thumb. “There. All good.”
She flexes her hand, testing the bandage. “Thank you. You didn’t have to do this.”
“I wanted to.” I lean back against the seat, but I don’t open the door. I should leave. I should get back to the store, pay for my groceries, and get to the restaurant to start prep. Knox is probably wondering where the hell I am.
But I don’t move.
I’ve never felt an attraction like this before. It’s not just that she’s beautiful, though she is. It’s something else. A pull. A gravity. I just want to sit here and look at her. I want to understand why she smells like rain. I want to know what put that terrified look in her eyes earlier.
Staring at her in her car like a creep would be weird, though. So I cast around for something else to say, anything to keep the conversation going.
My eyes land on the bakery bag on the back seat. “What did you get? From Lorelai’s?”
Amber follows my gaze. “Cinnamon sugar cookies. Cora makes them with this thick glaze that cracks when you bite into it. And… I think a loaf of that pumpkin bread.”
“Excellent choices,” I tell her sincerely. “Cora is a master of sugar. But,” I lower my voice conspiratorially, “I know a recipe for cinnamon buns that would rival those cookies.”
She looks at me, a skeptical brow raising. “No way.”
“Yes way,” I laugh. The sound feels easy between us. “It’s an old family recipe. My grandmother, Nai Nai, taught me. We startwith a brioche dough, let it rise overnight. Then, you brush it with this brown butter and cinnamon filling—lots of cinnamon, enough to make you sneeze. You roll it tight, cut them thick, and bake them until they’re golden. The secret is the cream cheese glaze. You add a pinch of salt to cut the sweet. It changes everything.”
She’s watching me now, really watching me. The rain scent in the air is fading, just a little, replaced by something warmer. She likes having my attention on her. I can feel it. I like having it on her, too.
“My grandmother lives in San Francisco, above the bakery,” I continue, caught up in the memory. “Her kitchen is tiny, always hot. It always smells of flour and yeast. She’s the one that taught me that baking isn’t just chemistry. It’s patience. It’s love. She used to say, ‘Eli, if you rush the dough, the bread will know. It will taste like anxiety.’”
Amber smiles, a small, genuine thing that reaches her eyes. “That sounds beautiful. I’d… I’d like to try them sometime.”
The words hang in the air.
“Come by the restaurant tonight,” I blurt out before I can talk myself out of it. “I can make a batch for you. As compensation. For injuring you.”
She blinks, surprised. “Tonight? I don’t know… I have to pick up my daughter from school, and…”
