Page 47 of Not You Again
Watching the interaction, Jamie begs off. “I don’t have that level of skill.”
“I didn’t even know that duppioni silk existed until now. You’ve got more than the standard level of knowledge for producing garments.”
Andie’s glare is relentless, her jaw taut and nostrils beginning to flare.
“It’s nice of you to say that.” Jamie nods. “I’m going to—” He gestures vaguely to the hallway Andie emerged from earlier, then steps away, leaving me to her wrath.
She takes a deep breath. “I can’t believe you just—”
“Found someone who may be able to help you and pointed it out?” I scoop up my wineglass and take a sip.
“Even if I wanted the help”—she crossed her arms over her chest—“I can’t afford to pay him.”
I shrug. “I can.”
Her jaw drops. “I—You—What the hell is wrong with you?”
“I’m trying to help.” I frown into my wineglass.
“Help?” She spits out the word and looks away, working her jaw. When she looks back at me, her eyes are bright with tears threatening to fall. “If you want to help me, maybe you should be here when we’re filming.”
“I was with my mom, you know that.”
“I’m aware.” She sniffs as she walks around the kitchen island to look in the oven. “I had a long day.”
“So did I.”
“And then I had to be here for this cooking class. Alone. While you got to be at home and relax. I’m tired, Kit. If you want to help, then show up so I’m not carrying this”—she waves at the huge studio setup behind us—“all on my own.”
The thread in my heart pulls taut, snagging on the rawness in Andie’s request. It’s not like I don’t know being on camera is taking its toll on her. All of us are beginning to crack under the pressure. It’s why I don’t want cameras invading my mom’s privacy when she needs to be focused on healing.
It’s not fair of me to offer that protection to Mom and leave Andie to do it alone.
I set my wineglass down with a sigh and follow Andie around the island. When I’m close enough, I ask gently, “If I hug you, are you going to stab me with one of those fancy chef’s knives?”
She swipes her palm across her cheek, but I saw the tear before she could hide it. She shakes her head.
I slide my arms around her waist and pull her into me—her back into my chest—and rest my chin on the top of her head. She stiffens for a second, then takes a deep breath and sinks into me. I breathe in, too. She smells like garlic and the soft floral scent in the soap she keeps in the shower.
“That was a lot of words to say you missed me tonight.” I give her a squeeze, so she knows I’m kidding. Mostly.
She digs her elbow into my ribs. When I loosen my grip, she turns in my arms, a smirk on her face. “Believe it or not, I did just fine without you.”
“You sure about that?” I nod to the lumpy pizza in the oven she’s been staring at.
“I wouldn’t laugh too much.” She flicks one of the buttons on my shirt, and it sends a jolt of electricity straight down to my cock. “Your punishment is to taste it when it’s done.”
“Punishment?”
She gives me a devious grin. “I made it just for you.”
“You didn’t poison it, did you?”
She shrugs and lets out a little hum. I feel that in my cock too.
“Poison or no”—I tug on a strand of her hair that’s fallen from her topknot—“I missed you too, sweet potato.”
She wrinkles her nose and shoves me away with her hands on my chest. But she’s smiling. I’ll take it.