Page 77 of Terms Of Un-Endearment
“You’ve never cut an onion before?”
“I buy them pre-chopped or frozen. It’s faster.”
He looks at me like I’m crazy and takes the onion from me. “Onion needs to be fresh.”
After grabbing a metal container, he peels a layer off the onion and drops it into the container.
“What’s that?” I point to the metal thing.
“Compost.”
“What do you do with it?”
Archie stops peeling and looks at the container. “I don’t know. Britta or Dex always took care of it. Or maybe the housekeeper.”
I laugh, and he scowls at me. “At least I know what to do with an onion.”
He takes my knife from me and sets the onion back on the cutting board, then demonstrates how to slice off the ends and cut it in half.
“Now you slice it lengthwise in thin strips.”
He hands the knife back to me, and I make one crooked cut. “Like that?”
Archie shakes his head and steps behind me. Before I realize what’s happening, he’s wrapped his arms around me and his hands over mine to demonstrate how to hold the onion and knife. He drags the knife through the far side of the onion, working his way to the opposite end.
There’s no space between us. The only sound is the clap of the blade against the wood cutting board with each slow slice. Archie’s chest rises and falls against my back, his breathing matching the rhythm of the knife while sending slow shivers up my spine, one vertebra at a time.
My eyes water from the onion, but I can’t see because I’m too focused on the comfort I feel inArchie Forsythe’s arms.
The best part is how natural it feels to be here. The worst part is how much I don’t want it to end. Which is wrong in too many ways to count.
“I think I’ve got it,” I say breathlessly.
“I reckon so.” The words caress my ear even as he unwraps himself from me. “Not bad at all. Keep goin’. When you’re done, slice the opposite direction, so you have diced pieces.”
I glance at Archie as he turns back to the stove, worried he’s seen how flushed I am.
Then I notice his hands trembling.
I finish slicing the onion, then dice it, all while wondering if I imagined Archie’s slight tremor…wondering if he’s shaky for the same reason I am.
When I finish, I pretend to watch Archie flipping the fish and seasoning the corn when really I’m breathing him in, remembering his skin against mine: warm and ocean-slick, smelling of salt, sun, and something earthy and addictive—like the scent left behind on someone’s skin after hours in the sea.
“Smells good, Chef,” I say softly.
“Thanks.” He smiles over his shoulder, which only makes me want to touch him again.
I don’t understand what’s happening here. The tension that’s been between us for the past week seems to be morphing into something else. Something closer to…attraction?
Even if I wanted to move away from Archie, I don’t think I could. His admission that he followed me to the bus stop to make sure I was okay keeps replaying in my head. He wanted to protect me. Maybe that’s why I want to be near him.
I’ve been the only person looking out for me for a very long time. I like the idea of someone else taking a turn.
Valente has stolen everything from me. Not only my designs but also the piece of my soul I poured into them. I spent countless hours developing those ideas. Fine-tuning them, obsessing over how to get them exactly right. And Valente took them as if they had the right to. Like they were entitled to them.
I look at Archie with his cropped, platinum-blond hair and slightly-orange face, cooking me dinner, and I remember the times I’ve accused him of being entitled. Of being like Malcolm.
I was wrong.
