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“I’m making dinner for someone. They eat chicken.”
“You don’t mind handling and cooking it?”
Maggie’s face must have given her away, because Mac’s frown deepened and he cursed. “If Dean knew how you felt about it, I’m sure he wouldn’t want you to do it.”
“I didn’t say it was for Dean.” Maggie jammed her hands onto her hips, but her face flushed.
“It’s not for Dean?”
“I want to make something he’ll like, and this seemed the easiest option. I just have to get over my aversion towards touching it, and I’ll be fine.” Maggie glared at the raw chicken again and breathed through the sudden pitch of her stomach. “The internet seemed divided. Do I wash it first?”
“Sweet girl,” Mac said, pinching the bridge of his nose again. “Never wash raw chicken. You’ll just splatter the germs all over your kitchen.”
“Oh.” Maggie nodded. “That was my only question, but maybe you should talk me through the rest of the cooking process. Just to be safe.”
“What time is your,” Mac swallowed hard, “date?”
Maggie blinked, searching her small kitchen for a clock. She settled for the one on her microwave. She had an hour. When did that happen? She was still in a pair of leggings and a t-shirt. She hadn’t showered yet. She hadn’t shaved.
“Go get ready, Maggie.” Mac said and pulled open one of her drawers. “I’ve got you.”
His eyes met hers, and Maggie wondered if he was thinking of the message she’d sent her fake boyfriend just the night before. She couldn’t let Mac cook for her date. Not with everything else getting all mixed up in her brain.
“Mac?”
He looked up from where he was washing his hands at her sink.
“I need to do this.” She held his gaze for long moments, the silence settling around them like a fresh-laundered sheet snapped over a mattress.
“Okay,” Mac said. “I’ll get it all ready for you, and then I’ll talk you through the cooking part. But let me help make sure you don’t have to touch any of it raw. Okay?”
Maggie nodded, and smiled, and headed for her shower.
Dean arrived fifteen minutes after he was supposed to and five minutes after Mac had left. True to his word, Mac had left the actual cooking for Maggie. He’d cut the raw chicken, helped her choose the proper seasonings, and then showed her how to set the heat on her sauté pan—she’d been calling it a frying pan for the last two years—and cook the pieces until there was no pink left.
The zucchini noodles, bell peppers, broccoli, and asparagus spears all mixed in a sweet and spicy peanut sauce were damn impressive, but Maggie was even more proud of the poultry on Dean’s plate, especially when he closed his mouth around the tines of his fork and groaned out his appreciation.
“This is incredible, Babs.” Dean took another bite. “Thank you for inviting me over and putting so much thought into the menu. I want to tell you, you didn’t have to cook meat, but I don’t want you to think I’m ungrateful.”
Maggie smiled and took a sip of her Riesling—picked by Audrey—and smiled across her tiny dinette at her fake boyfriend.
“I’m glad you like it. Although I admit I had some help.”
“Not from Audrey. I’ve tasted her cooking.”
They shared a laugh. Dean let his left hand come down on top of her right one and he gave her fingers a gentle squeeze. Maggie’s stomach flipped at the contact.
“You’re right,” she said and then she gazed up at him from under her lashes, trying to gauge his response to her next words. “Mac helped.”
Dean pulled his hand back and reclined in his chair. Maggie’s palm was cold without the contact, and she found herself nervous about what Dean was going to say.
“Mac, huh?” Dean tapped his knuckles against his wide mouth. “That was nice of him.”
Maggie nodded and studied the expression on Dean’s face. His nostrils flared under her scrutiny, and Maggie looked away.
“He’s a friend.” She flushed, thinking about how close their bodies had been in her tiny kitchen.
“Babs,” Dean put his fork down and steepled his fingers. “Do you want to be all done? With me?”
