Turn Me Loose (Alpha Ops) by Anne Calhoun

Author:Anne Calhoun [Calhoun, Anne]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: St. Martin's Press
Published: 2017-05-29T18:30:00+00:00

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Cooking dinner with Ian Hawthorn. Never in all of Riva’s fantasies about Ian had cooking a meal with Officer Hawthorn come up. Maybe she needed to expand her horizons.

Working with sharp knives meant keeping her mind on her work, and in this kitchen, it was a pleasure. Whoever designed the kitchen remodel had had a chef in mind. The cooktop was built into a workspace across from the fridge, with the ovens built into the wall adjoining. “Let’s start with the tarts. Wash and slice the new potatoes and shred the Emmentaler.”

She handed him a knife and turned back to the puff pastry dough, letting her mind wander as she assembled the tarts. Like any other experience with Ian, this one was causing some serious cognitive dissonance, not least because she’d never expected to bring a man home.

Forget the fact that the man you’ve brought home isn’t actually a boyfriend, much less a serious one. Ignore that. Instead, think about how normal this is. You’re worrying about your mother’s Valium-induced stupor, your father’s ability to find any weakness or flaw and exploit it for his own amusement. You’re worrying about having sex without your parents hearing.

“How’s this?”

Think about Ian, calmly slicing potatoes while NPR plays in the background. Think about how normal that could be.

She came back to herself with a start. Ian stood at her shoulder, the first stalk of celery nicely minced. His hazel eyes were calm, like he was relaxed, enjoying himself, just hanging out with a friend who might become something more than a friend. She was having a hard time reconciling curt, resolute Officer Hawthorn from her past with Ian, who seemed to have an incredibly thick skin and a limitless supply of patience.

So forget Officer Hawthorn. Let Ian be Ian. Just for now.

“Good,” she said. She took the knife from his unresisting fingers, chopped the dill and mint just a little more, then held it out to him. “That’s better.”

He tipped his head down, in that one movement making her extremely aware of their height difference, and murmured, “It is.”

“What?”

His fingers brushed her palm as he claimed the knife. “You didn’t flinch.”

He didn’t push. Smart man, because the whole scene was doing the work for him. The spring afternoon pushed into evening, the golden light gilding the gray-painted chairs and table, the granite counters, Ian’s hair as he worked. Cooking smells had long anchored her memories, and this was no exception. The dance they did in the kitchen, his skin against hers as he passed her a bowl of chopped strawberries, her hand on his back as she passed behind him, moving from fridge to sink. The muscles were firm, lean. The look on his face as he stirred, concentrating, but without the intense focus he’d worn in the car years ago. Then he’d looked hard, combative, unyielding. Now his defenses were down. All he was thinking about was the process of preparing food.

She wanted more of everything, the scents of the food, the warm spring air, Ian working quietly by her side.

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