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He sees me, and a smile lights up his face. “Perfect timing. I think it’s done.”
“Smells done. Good God, how did you know crawfish étouffée is my favorite dish of all time?”
“Lucky guess.” He’s beaming so brightly he could shatter glass. “Come try it and tell me how I did. I’ve never made this before.”
“No? It smells like a bayou kitchen in here. Like you know your way around the chaudière, mon cher.”
He’s flushing, crimson spreading across his cheeks and down the hollow of his throat. The pulse at the side of his neck is fluttering.
We face each other in front of the stove, him at ease, me like I’ve just been issued arms and legs and I have no idea how to use them. Where have I put my hands for the past thirty-seven years of my life? They want to reach for him, slide around his tight waist, tug him to me—
Hands in your pockets, Theriot.
Brennan turns off the burner and swirls the étouffée again.
“You made it the Creole way,” I say.
“Is that bad?”
“Not at all.” Our words are soft, our voices deep. Mine sounds like the roll of the Gulf after a hurricane. His is ragged on the trailing edges. He won’t meet my gaze.
“Here.” He holds the spoon out, piled with juicy crawfish smothered in roux. “Tell me how I did.”
Flavor explodes, and I’m falling through time to Decatur Street jazz, to digging the last remnants of étouffée out of to-go cartons as I lean against my patrol car outside the Ninth Ward. To chaudières in the swamps, lily pads blooming, birds calling through the mists, the slap of muddy waters against the clapboard sides of our home. It’s the bayou and blues, neon-soaked nights, humidity-drenched afternoons.
My eyes close as I moan.
He starts, the spoon jumping, and a dash of roux slips down my chin. “Sorry.”
He moves at the same time I do. Our hands collide, his warm and spicy from the cooking, from bell pepper and onion and paprika. Mine are cold from the rain and the air conditioning in my SUV.
He stills.
My fingers wrap around his, drawing him closer, until I’ve tangled us together in his kitchen in front of the still-bubbling étouffée.
Roux is sliding down my thumb. Brennan tugs while stepping forward, moving until there’s no space between us.
Our thighs meet. Our hips. Our chests brush on an inhale, and our gazes lock.
He slides my thumb into his mouth. Licks away the roux with his tongue.
I snap.
I move before my brain can fire, in a moment when instinct and need overcome thoughts. I back Brennan up, walking him three steps to the fridge, where I cage him to the stainless steel. Arms to the chilled metal, hips against Brennan’s, every inch of me pressing into every inch of him.
His eyes are huge, a maelstrom of emotions, too many to parse or name.
This is a moment I’ve hovered over in my dreams. They’ve teased me with the promise of a kiss and never delivered.
My head tilts, and I brush my nose against Brennan’s before closing those uncrossable millimeters and pressing our lips together.
It’s like plunging into the ocean. Silence descends, followed by a dull roar, the sound of reality held at bay. I tumble inside myself and cling to Brennan. His frantic pulse becomes mine. I cradle Brennan’s face and kiss him deeper, my thumb traveling over the arc of his cheekbone. His stubble scratches the center of my palm.
Hands on my chest. Pulling me in, and then—
Pushing me away.
Our kiss breaks on a gasp, and I dig my forehead against his as my eyes clench shut.
