Page 21 of Still Yours
Stone holds the pan over the sink, turning it this way and that and gripping it like he’s never seen a frying pan before. “Fall out, damn you.”
With his expression twisting and face reddening, he uses his fingers to pry the blackened pancake off.
“Ah—fuck!”
His cry is the most emotion he’s shown since his arrival, and it’s over a burned glop of food.
“I got it.” I rush to his side as his lips go white and he shakes off the pain. “Where did you put the spatula?”
“The what?”
My finger pads have years of burn experience behind them. I easily un-stick the pancake-coal. It falls into the garbage disposal with a crunchy plop.
“You’re making pancakes from scratch and yet you don’t know what a spatula is?”
“I’m not making anything from scratch. I got this out of the freezer.”
“You—” My eyes land on the open frozen waffle box to the right of the stove. “Oh, boy.”
Taking the pan from him, I run it under the tap; the steam coming up with ahissof smoke.
“Those go in the toaster, not the stove.”
Stone frowns. “Waffles don’t go in a toaster. That’s ridiculous.”
I stare at him, agog. “Are you so ashamed that you’ve totally forgotten where you came from? You used to love frozen food. Iremember you eating thawed chicken fingers in the morning in first grade because you decided you hated breakfast.”
His arms fall to his sides. Stone regards me silently.
I close my eyes. Take a breath. “That was uncalled for. Sorry.”
“It’s been a while. Since I’ve cooked,” he admits gruffly.
My mind immediately assaults me with questions of whether that’s because he has a personal chef, or if his multiple women that have passed through cooked for him, waiting on him in bed as he splayed out naked, greeting them with a grin.
Don’t go down that road.I chastise myself internally.It’ll only hurt more.
“Are you okay?” I ask as I grab his injured hand, inspecting the scarlet skin.
“Fine,” he grits out.
I prod the tips of his fingers gently, happy to see his frustration merely caused impatient man burns and nothing more serious. “You don’t need salve. Run it under cold water for a few minutes and it’ll stop hurting.”
“I don’t feel pain.”
Ignoring him, I pull his hand into the running water, holding on as I angle it.
I’m watching the water cascade over his calloused palm instead of looking at his heart-rendering face. I can feel the soft hairs on his forearm under my grip. And smell the soap from his shower. And inch closer to the irresistible heat of his body.
Then I lift my chin and meet his eyes, blue as the spring sky on our faces when we skipped school to go to the football field.
I drop his arm. Not expecting the move, his hand falls against the still-hot pan in the sink.
“Ah—Jesus fucking —”He recoils, his back slamming into the fridge as I stand there, not sorry at all that I let him go.
“I should get these to your mom.” I use the gap he created between us and get back to pill counting.
Stone doesn’t move, his cautious stare following me as he holds his injured hand. “Not to worry, my hand is fine despite being burned in the same place twice.”
