Page 29 of Just My Puck
He protests a little, but eventually he retreats upstairs, telling me to call if I need him. Once I reach the kitchen, I start by gathering all the ingredients and utensils I’ll need, then I start cooking.
I hum as I stir the pan, feeling oddly pleased with myself.
Cooking is relaxing. Simple. Therapeutic, even. Just chop some stuff, throw it in a pan, and boom—food. No memory required. Who knows? Maybe I was even a good cook.
The aroma of sautéed onions and garlic permeates the kitchen. That seems like a good sign. Full disclosure—I don’t actually know what I’m making, but the recipe on my phone makes it sound easy enough. Something with chicken. Or maybe pasta? Whatever. It’ll be fine.
I check the directions again, squinting at the step I just completed. Wait. Did it say to sauté the garlic? Or burn it into oblivion?
I poke the garlic with a spoon. It’s . . . crispy. That seems wrong.
No big deal. I’ll just add more flavors to cover it up. Cooking is about balance, right? I dump in the next ingredients, stirring with enthusiasm. Well, maybe a little too much enthusiasm, because a chunk of something flies out of the pan and lands on the floor.
Oops.
I glance at the recipe again. It says todeglazethe pan with wine. That sounds fancy. I grab the bottle Caleb keeps by the stove and pour a generous splash straight in the pan.
The metal hisses, sizzling violently.
I jump back. “Okay. That’s fine.”
I stir for a few more minutes. The liquid disappears way too fast, leaving behind a dark, sticky layer. That doesn’t seem right, but I don’t have time to work out that issue, because something else needs chopping.
By the time I finish, the smell has taken a notable turn. It’s . . . different. More pungent. I hesitate, then cautiously take a sniff. My nose scrunches up.
Oh. That’s not good.
I quickly scrape at the bottom of the pan, but nothing budges. The hissing turns into a crackling, and a wisp of smoke curls upward.
Okay. I can fix this. I lower the heat, then pour in another splash of wine, but as soon as the liquid hits the pan, a billow of black smoke erupts.
I hurry to open the large slidingwindow, then turn on the range hood. Not an easy task when you only have one eye and smoke is casting a thick haze over the kitchen.
“Aria!” Caleb calls from behind me, a hint of panic in his voice. I didn’t even hear him come in.
He strides forward, seemingly unbothered by the smoke that is threatening to consume his kitchen. In one smooth motion, he grabs an oven mitt, yanks the pan off the stove, and slams a lid on top, trapping the smoke. Then, he brings it out to the patio to cool down.
My throat tightens as he rushes back into the house. “I’m so sorry—”
“Are you okay?” he asks, his hands cradling my face, then holding my shoulders. “Gosh, that could have been really dangerous.”
“I’m fine,” I say, still a little shaken up. Not so much because I almost burned his kitchen down, but because of the way his hands feel on my body and his eyes trap me, full of concern. Like I’m this precious creature that matters to him. And for the first time, I don’t just wish I had someone in my life waiting for me. I wish that someone was Caleb.
13
“See? I knew I was going to burn down your kitchen."
Caleb Hawthorne
My heart is still hammering as I slide my hands from Aria’s shoulders, suddenly aware of my movements. I acted on instinct. As soon as I smelled something burning, all I could think about was Aria.
“I’m okay,” she repeats, gnawing at her bottom lip. “See? I knew I was going to burn down your kitchen. I guess we can rule out ‘cook’ as my profession.”
I sigh, shaking my head.
“Too soon?” She winces. “Sorry.”
I smile at her ability to recover from anything with ease. “No, definitely not a cook.”
