I taste the soup, considering whether it needs more salt. “What is the point?”
“The point is—” Jared steps closer, his chest brushing my back, his breath warm on my neck. “You like him.”
“He’s Quinn’s tutor.” I add a pinch of salt, avoiding his knowing grin. “And he’s learning woodworking. That’s all.”
Jared’s hands settle on my hips. “Emily Wilson, queen of understatement.”
Before I can protest, his lips find the spot below my ear that never fails to send a shiver down my spine. His nose nudges my cheek, scenting me with a casual possessiveness that my Alpha instincts respond to despite my best intentions.
“Stop it,” I laugh, elbowing him. “I’m trying to cook.”
“And I’m trying to get you to admit these woodworking lessons mean more than you’re saying.” He steals another quick kiss before stepping back. “Which is fine, by the way. More than fine.”
I brush past him to retrieve the butter dish from the refrigerator. “You’re reading too much into this.”
“Am I?” Jared hops up onto the counter, his long legs swinging as I move around the kitchen. “Then why not put together the sandwiches you bought ingredients for?”
I set the dish next to the breadboard, avoiding his knowing gaze. “I woke up with a craving.”
“Uh-huh,” he says in obvious disbelief.
I straighten, meeting his eyes. “It’s just food.”
“It’s never just food,” he says with a quiet purr of approval. “Not with you.”
Heat creeps up my neck, and I busy myself pulling the bread knife from the block on the counter. “You’re overthinking it.”
“Could be.” He slides off the counter and crosses the room, stopping short of touching me. “Or it could be that you’re letting yourself care a little more than you mean to.”
The oven timer beeps, breaking the moment.
I reach for it without looking at him. “You need to head out, or you’ll miss the water taxi.”
“You know,” Jared continues, ignoring my unsubtle deflection, “once you’re back at work, you could still keep woodworking sessions as a regular thing, open to anyone who wants to join. Didn’t Nathaniel say Blake was overwhelmed by all his projects?”
I pause, bread knife suspended mid-air. “He did…”
“More people would keep it low-pressure. More communal.”
The idea of welcoming more people to our home, of filling the space with creative energy, fills me with a buzz of excitement.
“We’ll see,” I say, resuming my slicing. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”
The buzz of my phone interrupts before Jared can respond. I wipe my hands on a dishtowel and reach for it, expecting a message confirming Leif’s arrival time.
Leif
Sorry, Emily. Something’s come up.
Rain check?
I read it, searching for what isn’t said. It’s polite and brief. Too brief for Leif, who tends to text in complete paragraphs with perfect punctuation.
At my extended silence, Jared asks, “Everything okay?”
I set the phone down on the counter with care. “Leif can’t come today.”
“Ah.” Jared drops the teasing. “Any reason why?”