Page 45 of Off the Grid
She shrugged.
“False equivalency.”
She crossed her arms and stared. “Well?”
Leo scoffed. “Can you?”
“Just watch me.”
- 16 -
McKenzie
She slid off the counter and hopped on one foot across the kitchen toward the pantry, ignoring the snickering following in her wake. She’d show him. Oh, she’d show him.
Why am I so annoyed right now?
McKenzie paused when she pulled open the pantry door, taking a deep breath now that she was out of his line of sight. It definitely wasn’t because hearing him speak Spanish with a sexy, sultry accent had gotten her all hot and bothered. And it couldn’t have been the sight of him confidently manning the stove, his muscles pulling tight against that too-small T-shirt, reminding her of the many cut contours she’d seen in the flesh not too long ago.
It was the smell of the kitchen.
Okay, yes, that has got to be why my brain is going haywire.
The cumin, the chili powder, the cayenne—they brought her back to a place she didn’t often go, to a home that was once warm, and bright, and full of love.
It smells like Yolanda, McKenzie thought as she reached out and took a bag of flour from the pantry shelves. It had been a long time since she’d thought about her former nanny, a woman who oftentimes felt closer to her than her own mother. When McKenzie was sick, Yolanda was the one who brought her soup, put on her favorite movies, and tucked her into bed. When she was bored, Yolanda was the one who brought her into the kitchen to bake cookies or act as sous-chef while dinner was underway. Yolanda had been the one to pick her up from school and bring her to practices. Her car had always smelled of spices, and whenever she cooked, those same smells would fill the Harper house as well.
McKenzie had been a toddler when Yolanda started working for her parents, andYolandahad been too complicated for her developing brain to understand. So she’d called her Yoyo, and the name had stuck, all the way up until her father’s arrest when her mother had fired Yolanda without explanation. Looking back, McKenzie knew exactly why. Her nanny had witnessed the family’s shame. She’d held McKenzie while she’d cried. She’d seen her father get dragged away by the Feds. She’d seen her mother lose control and break the entire set of crystal scotch glasses in her father’s study. After that, she had to go. Yolanda was a reminder, to McKenzie’s mom, of all their faults. McKenzie had screamed at her mother, had cried for Yoyo to come back, but it was done. The next week, another woman came, mostly to help drive McKenzie around to school and to her practices, but it wasn’t the same. That poor woman was the first person she’d iced out, taking after her mom, too blinded by bitter anger to see clearly.
I wonder if she liked it when I called her Yoyo instead of Yolanda…McKenzie shook her head, clearing her mind.Churros. Think about churros. How the hell do you make churros?
It had been over a decade since the last time she’d tried, but the memory was still sharp. Yoyo used to put a chair next to the stovetop so McKenzie could watch when she cooked. Even now she could hear the sizzle of boiling oil, could smell the cinnamon-sugar in the air, could taste the crunchy fried dough. They’d been her favorite, back in the day, before the precision of French pastry took over. Churros were simple, delicious, and messy in the best way possible—something McKenzie hadn’t been in a long time. She remembered how to make them. No matter how much time may have passed, that recipe was in her blood.
She grabbed a bag of sugar and a tub of vegetable oil that’d been half-used, balanced them with the flour already in her arms, and hobbled back into the kitchen. Leo had already pulled a deep-frying pan from the shelves and put it on top of a flaming burner. Salt and cinnamon sat inconspicuously on the counter next to the stove, along with a mixing bowl. McKenzie lined everything across the counter, arranging the ingredients from largest to smallest, then spun in search of measuring cups. After three drawers, she found a set and went back to her spot. All her ingredients had been rearranged into total chaos.
McKenzie tossed a silent glare in Leo’s direction.
He didn’t say a word, but the grin on his lips spoke volumes.
Taking a deep breath, she rearranged the items back into height order, then hopped over to the sink to fill her glass of water. By the time she returned, the items had been moved again, but this time into a pyramid. Leo’s face was the picture of calculated nonchalance. She jerked her elbow into his ribs with a bit of force. He doubled over, half laughing, half groaning.
“Oh, sorry, I didn’t see you there,” she quipped. “My mistake.”
“You’re used to a bigger kitchen.” He forced the words out as he stood up straight. Using his palms for leverage, he leapt onto the counter. “My chili is simmering, so I’ll give the master room to work.”
She wasn’t used to having an audience when she cooked. The kitchen at the restaurant was too busy for any of the other chefs to pay her any mind. Now, Leo’s gaze was glued to her, a searing touch hotter than the flames currently simmering beneath the pan. McKenzie squeezed her eyes shut and took a breath, pushing the awareness of him away.
Churros. Think about churros.
The memory of Leo carrying her through the rain like some sort of Greek god fluttered to the forefront of her thoughts.
Churros.
She shook her head and reached for the water, trying to dispel the image of him rolling on top of her protectively as bullets flew overhead, trying to forget how good the weight of his body felt against hers.
Churros.
McKenzie poured a cup of water into the hot pan, but as the liquid splashed against the steel, all she saw were water droplets dripping down those bared six-pack abs. The termwashboardhad never been more accurate.
