Page 75 of Secret Paths

He opens a drawer, finds the knives and puts one on the board. “Tonight can be educational.”

“I do not need a cooking lesson.”

“You need dinner. The lesson is a bonus.”

He says it lightly. No grand improvement project. No smug man in my kitchen, ready to rescue me from ready meals and toast. Only Peter, hungry and amused, preparing to cook because he wants feeding before sex.

I can work with that.

Probably.

“All right,” I say. “But assume I know nothing.”

“Noted.” He hands me a utensil I didn’t even know I owned. “This. Is. A. Peeler. Start with this one. It is the least judgemental.” He hands me a potato.

It looks extremely judgemental.

I peel slowly while he puts a pan of water on the hob. My first potato has corners by the time I am finished with it.

Peter picks it up and examines it.

“Rustic,” he says.

“Rustic means ugly.”

“Ugly with confidence.”

“That may be my cooking style.”

“We have discovered your brand.”

I should hate this.

I do not.

He chops the onion himself, mostly because my eyes start streaming the moment he cuts into it and I accuse him of bringing chemical weapons into my home. Then he shows me how to dice carrots without losing a fingertip, standing close enough that his chest brushes my back when he reaches around me.

“Fingertips tucked,” he says.

“I know how to use a knife.”

“You were holding it like it had insulted your family.”

“It might have.”

His hand covers mine briefly on the handle. “Like this.”

The contact lasts two seconds.

That is enough.

His voice is near my ear. “You have to look at what you are doing.”

“I am.”

“You are looking at my hand.”

“That is where the knife is.”