She is not being subtle. She has not been subtle since approximately the moment she dragged me through the front door this afternoon.
Which leaves me sitting at the kitchen island watching Beckett cook and trying to look like a person who is completely comfortable with this situation.
I am not completely comfortable with this situation.
"You don't have to just sit there," he says without turning around. "You can help."
"I'm supervising."
"That's what people say when they don't want to admit they're not sure what to do."
"I know exactly what to do. I'm choosing not to do it."
He looks over his shoulder with that almost smile that has been getting harder to ignore. "Hand me the garlic."
I hand him the garlic.
This is how it starts. One thing leads to another and ten minutes later I'm at the stove beside him doing something with butter and herbs that he talks me through in a low unhurried voice. The kitchen smells extraordinary and the evening light is comingthrough the window. At exactly that angle that makes everything look warmer than it is.
We are standing very close together.
This is a practical necessity. The kitchen island is behind us and the stove is in front of us and there is simply not a lot of room at the stove. That is the only reason. I am aware of exactly how much space exists between his shoulder and mine and I am not thinking about it.
He reaches past me for the pepper and his arm brushes mine and neither of us moves away and neither of us mentions it and the kitchen suddenly feels approximately half the size it did a minute ago.
"Laney."
His voice is quieter than it needs to be for the distance between us.
I look up.
He's looking down at me with an expression I haven't seen from him before. Unguarded in a way that his face usually isn't. The controlled composure he carries everywhere has slipped somewhere between the garlic and the butter and what's underneath it is something that does serious damage to every argument I've been making to myself for two weeks.
The kitchen is very quiet.
He's close enough that I can see the detail in his eyes and I'm not thinking about the food anymore and I don't think he is either.
He starts to say something. His face inches from mine.
I don't get to find out what it is.
Because Rowdy comes through the back door at full speed, skids on the kitchen floor, takes out a bar stool, bounces off the island, and lands directly between us with a rope toy in his mouth and mud on every surface of his body including several I wouldn't have thought possible.
We jump apart.
Maisie appears in the doorway half a second later with the expression of someone who has made a terrible miscalculation.
"He got out of my hands," she says.
Rowdy drops the rope toy at my feet and looks up at me with his tail going and his tongue out and the complete shameless satisfaction of an animal who has no idea what he just interrupted.
I look at Beckett.
He looks at me.
We both look at Rowdy.
"I'll get the mop," Beckett says.
