Chapter 17

Gage

Seeing Kendall in my kitchen, her taking a wooden spoon from my fingers, had me feeling shit that I had no right to feel.

Finn often led us into the kitchen when the women were cooking, mostly because he had a bottomless stomach that always wanted to be filled, but for me, it was something else. That close, noisy, intimate space seemed like heaven to me, and the fact that Kendall and her mum made stuff that tasted like ambrosia itself was just an added benefit. I thought when we bought this place and installed the kitchen we’d be able to recreate the same magic, but it was quickly becoming apparent that the missing element wasn’t marble counters or soft closing drawers.

It was her.

“What did you put in this?” she asked, dragging the spoon through the sauce.

“Beef, tomatoes, garlic,” I told her with a small frown. Wasn’t that what Bolognese was?

“No onions?” She looked up at me. “No carrots or celery, diced fine? No pancetta?”

“Um, no… What’s pancetta?”

She shook her head. “You could’ve used bacon in a pinch but… What seasonings did you use?”

“Salt and pepper,” I replied confidently, only for her frown to deepen.

“Salt and pepper?” She made it sound like I’d dropped trou and done a shit in the pot. “Jesus, Gage…” Her hands wrapped around the spice rack I’d made in Year 8 woodwork and plonked it in front of me. “You have all of these herbs here. Use them.”

But which ones? Cooking was a mystery to me. I knew my Bolognese sauce was nothing to write home about, but it was hot, filled with protein, and would stick to your ribs, so what else did she want? Herbs, it became apparent by her steady stare. I reached out for one container and she smacked me on the back of my hand with the spoon. I just stared at the red mark she’d left.

“Cinnamon? Really, Gage?” The spoon was set down, but I wanted her to pick it right up, to stir the pot, to smack me, because then maybe she’d start doing the thing she loved doing again.

And she’d punish me for whatever it was that was holding her back.

“Basil, parsley, though fresh stuff minced fine once the sauce is done is better. Oregano, marjoram, even some thyme…” Containers were snatched out of the spice rack and set down beside me, so I picked the first one up and unscrewed the lid, ready to dump the contents in, but her hand snapped out to stop me.

Yes, that. I wanted that so very much. To feel her touch me, even if it was to stop me from doing something. Shit, especially if I was about to do something stupid. Because I was turning away from the pot, ready to ring for pizza or Chinese food, if that’s what it took to keep her touching me, and Kendall seemed to sense that, frowning and pulling away.

“You can’t put the whole container in. That’s too much,” she told me. I nodded and started to rifle through the drawers, looking for a measuring spoon, but she shook her head. “People say you should use your heart to work out how much should go in.”

“Gotta say,” I replied, “my heart’s telling me I have no fucking idea what I’m doing right now.”

In so many more ways than just cooking.

She blew her breath out and then shook her head before grabbing the basil, or was it the marjoram? I couldn’t tell because I wasn’t looking at the herbs, but at her. She took off the lid with exaggerated care and then demonstrated how to add a generous shake of herbs to the pot.

“The same with each one of these?” I asked, forcing my eyes down to stare at the herbs when all I wanted to do was look at her.

“Start with that and then taste to see.”

I followed her instructions to the letter, making sure to add a good couple of shakes of each herb before putting each one back into the rack and then I was done. She handed me the spoon back and my fingers grazed hers right before I stirred the sauce, careful not to scrape the pot at the bottom. I went to have a taste of the sauce from the wooden spoon, but a hiss from her made clear that was a mistake.

“You don’t contaminate the mixing spoon or the sauce with your saliva.” She handed me a tablespoon, and I tasted the sauce from that.

Not quite right. It was definitely better than anything I’d done before, but still… I told her that, and she smiled.

“That’s because this has only the barest minimum of ingredients.” She went to the fridge and jerked the doors open before pulling out vegetables, some cheese and a bottle of wine, giving that an experimental sniff. “The whole point of this kind of sauce is it simmers for ages with these different flavours, then they all start to meld together, becoming more than the sum of their parts. It’s missing all the other flavours.”

I was supposed to be slowly, very, very slowly, fixing her car. We agreed we didn’t want to do so too quickly, because maybe if we dragged the job out, Kendall would stay for a little longer. But right now, I didn’t want to be anywhere else but here.

She wouldn’t touch the ingredients beyond setting them on the bench, I noticed that real quick, but she gave me clear instructions on what to add and when. I followed her lead, adding wine and vinegar of all bloody things, along with some cheese rind, ready to just trust the process. But her reticence was tested when she gave me vegetables to cut up. I never said I was any good at knife work. I could use tools skilfully, but all of that manual dexterity seemed to desert me in the kitchen. I bludgeoned onions rather than diced them finely, something she noted with a sigh, right before she reached for the knife.

This was how I remembered Kendall.

One long strand of dark red hair hanging in her face as she wielded the knife like a pro, slicing the onion so finely you could see the cell structure in each slice as it fell to the board. Then she diced all of it in movements so quickly I could barely follow it. A couple of carrots got the same treatment, though less finely chopped, and some celery before she looked up at me.

Did she know her cheeks flushed each time she got excited about something? I saw that right now, her eyes shining, a curious kind of energy surging through her as her lips started to twitch into a smile, right before she stopped herself. Because of me, I realised, feeling my heart ache in response. Because I was the one who was looking at her, not a friend or family member. Because this wasn’t her mother’s kitchen, but mine.

“Do you have a fry pan somewhere?” I moved quickly, digging one out and setting it down on the hot plates. “OK, let’s set the heat on. Not too high! Do you guys flambé everything you eat?”

“Gets it cooked quicker,” I mumbled.

“Burns the shit out of it, you mean.” She edged near me, a warm shadow at my shoulder, and all I wanted was for her to come closer. I turned the heat down, but it was the flame of her I wanted searing me, not the gas flickering around the hob. “Now tell me you have olive oil.”

I went to go and grab it, but in my haste I almost collided with her. Kendall stumbled back and my arm moved without thought. To catch her, set her back on her feet and stop her slamming back into the bench, but that wasn’t how it worked out. Instead, I was standing there, my body pressed against hers as my arm locked tightly around her waist. The red spots in her cheeks faded completely as she just stared at me. Like I wasn’t Gage, the fuckhead kid who spent his life pissing her off, but this.

A man. One that stank from a long day of working on the site, then at home on her car. One that would cook whatever she wanted cooked, clean whatever she wanted cleaned, bring her the heads of her enemies, anything. One that still had grease streaking his forearms, even after I’d scrubbed my hands when I got into the kitchen, and the awareness I was probably staining her clothes had me stepping back.

What the fuck was I doing?

“Olive oil,” I said, suddenly remembering as I beat a hasty retreat to the pantry.

Building a walk-in pantry was perfect because I could spend a few fucking seconds trying to get my head out of my arse. My cock was throbbing so damn hard it was like a second heartbeat, but there was no relief to be found here. Probably because the ache in my chest was so much worse, but that wasn’t what Kendall needed. I walked out with the oil bottle in hand and then went to pass it to her, but she shook her head.

“A splash in the fry pan.” I did just that. “A bigger splash than that. Oh… Oh well, let’s get the vegetables in. Right. Just like that.” My hand went to the dial to turn the heat up, but she smacked it away. “You’re sweating, softening the vegetables so they release their flavours, not burning them to a crisp. You should do this first with some garlic.” I reached over and added some garlic powder to the mix. “Fresh garlic next time, but yeah, keep everything moving around in the pan until the carrot goes soft and the onion is translucent.”

“I dunno if many girls have talked about softening carrots in this kitchen before.”

That was meant to be funny, but Kendall pulled away, putting more and more space between us. Her eyes roamed, taking in the kitchen as if with fresh eyes, seeking evidence, but of what?

“Right. Had a lot of girls in here, have you?”

“No, I—”

“I guess that’s the good thing about marble countertops.” She smoothed a hand over one of them. “You can buff out any marks a girl’s butt leaves on them.”

“Kendall—”

“I need to unpack,” she announced, her tone completely different. “Not too much. Just the essentials. No point unpacking everything and then having to put it all back in boxes again weeks later.”

“Jesus, I didn’t mean—”

“Add the vegetables to the sauce and stir them through. Add water if the sauce starts to dry out and keep an eye on it.” She smiled then, so why did that feel like she was stabbing a knife into my chest? “It’s not something you can just set and forget and expect it to be ready to be served when you’re hungry.” A sharp nod. “Good Bolognese requires a bit of patience.”

Before I could explain, before I could tell her just how few women had been in this kitchen, she was gone, walking out the door again, and it took every damn thing in me to stop myself from running after her.