Page 79 of Tipping Point

We don’t talk, yet. It’s not companionable silence, but we’re working towards it.

He shakes his head when I make to help him chop the vegetables and I retreat to nurse my glass of wine. He fries a carrot, celery, and an onion in copious amounts of olive oil in the bottom of a casserole and adds fresh garlic and spices before he tops it off with chicken broth.

Then he steps out to open all the doors to let in the night air. I follow him to the terrace where he picks fresh herbs. The smell from the bruised plants intensifies, wafting inside.

Back in the kitchen, he grates off a large piece of the parmesan and washes his hands under the faucet.

Now and then he takes a sip of his own glass of wine, fingers splayed over the bowl of the glass.

He upends the plastic container with breadcrumbs on the countertop and mixes in a fistful of the parmesan. With a grater, he zests a lemon over it and some nutmeg.

He mixes it with his hands and then adds three eggs, mixes them in with his fingertips until it gets doughy, then kneads it in earnest.

The silence has become a sacred thing. To break it would be to break the spell of him. He’s lost in thought and working with purpose. His shirt sleeves are pushed up to above his elbows and I watch his forearm muscles flex as he kneads the dough.

When he turns back to the broth, his eyes lock with mine. They’re brown and soft. The corner of his mouth jerks up in a smile.

It makes my heart skip a beat.

Unbidden, I think of him in London, black eyes and warm mouth and his weight on top of me.

He slows down as he watches me, then gives a slow blink, turns to the casserole, and busies himself with straining the vegetable broth. He pours the clear liquid back into the casserole and keeps his back to me.

He takes a potato ricer and tears off half the dough, putting it inside. He presses down and long tendrils of dough snake down through the fragrant steam and into the broth. He repeats the process with the other half of the dough and stirs the noodles with a wooden spoon as they boil away. When the noodles rise to the surface, he pulls bowls and spoons from a drawer and serves big scoops into each bowl.

He jerks his head at the bottle of wine, and I grab it as I follow him out to the terrace. I fill our glasses and he holds his up in a toast after we both take our seats at the small round table.

I touch my glass to his and it rings out softly in the quiet of the evening air. The terrace is heady, with soft light spilling out from inside and the smell of the herbs. I can hear crickets and the sound of Finn’s throat as he takes a big gulp of his wine.

The aroma of the dish rises up to meet me.

I can’t do this.

I set down my glass carefully, push out the chair. Stand up.

I look at him with regret. When our eyes meet, I can’t make out his expression. The light behind him casts his face in shadow.

He rears up from the table, his chair tumbling to the ground behind him, and he takes two steps to close the distance between us, but it’s not happening fast enough to his liking. He grabs me by the arm and tugs me to him.

I stumble against his chest and look up at him and his black eyes are roving over my face with a scowl.

The wine on his hot breath when he exhales heavily is heady and I breathe it in.

“Fuck,” he says in a thick voice, and then he tips my chin up and pours himself into me.

14

Chapter 14

FINN

She savours it, slow. When I part my lips and press my tongue against hers, she doesn’t submit to me. She meets me slow and strong, and she doesn’t let me set the pace.

It’s just a kiss.

And yet, it hurts like a fucking wound. It pains me, this kiss. My chest aches. It snatches my very breath away. I’m still pushing for control. My tongue draws hers out, lips pulling on hers, thinking, if she can lose control, I can own her.

If she can lose control, I can consume her.