Page 43 of A Fine Line
My cheeks burned, the heat in my cheeks rushing down my neck. “Shut up and fix me, doc.”
He raised an eyebrow, clearly enjoying the way I squirmed under his attention. “Alright, I have to do this. Just keep talking, it’ll distract you.”
As he gently wiped my cut, the sting hit harder than I expected. Like it was rushing straight to every nerve ending in my hand. “Oww,” I hissed, trying to focus on anything other than the pain—or the way his fingers brushed against mine. “I miss my hometown,” I blurted.
His hand paused, and his gaze softened. “Yeah? What’s it like?”
I cleared my throat, trying to keep my voice steady. “Cozy. Nosey. Everyone knows everyone. Life moves slower there.” I smiled a little, remembering the rises and falling of the land. “The farm is what I miss the most. Acres and acres of land.Sometimes, it’s so quiet it feels like it’s just you and the birds. Well, and the mosquitos, but you learn to live with them.”
Crew hummed. “Sounds amazing.” He wasn’t looking at my hand anymore, just me. The intensity in his gaze made my breath catch.
“Hey, focus on the injury.”
“Right,” he went back to adjusting the bandage around my finger.
“It is, though. Amazing. I’m excited to visit for Thanksgiving. My nana makes the best mac and cheese—Southern comfort stuff. Ham, dressing… the works.”
Crew was focused again, now pulling out an extra band-aid. “You’re gonna have to bring me a plate. I’m serious.”
My heart did a little flip as I smiled at him. If we win the competition, I could. But if we won, that meant this whole game we were playing—this fun, flirty thing—would have to stop, wouldn’t it? Or would we keep… whatever this was, going? Friends?
“All set.” Crew’s voice brought me back, his hand lightly patting my knee.
I wiggled my fingers, testing the band-aid’s strength. “I hate that you have such good knives.”
“They came with band-aids when I ordered them,” he said, flashing a half-smile. “Figured this kind of thing happens a lot.”
I laughed, but it was weaker than usual. There was something brewing between us, something that wasn’t part of the usual banter. It had me off balance, and I didn’t like it one bit. Or maybe I liked it a lot. I wasn’t sure.
Either way, my voice wobbled when I responded to his gentle caress on my hand. His fingers grazing my palm even though there was nothing left to be fixed. “Careful, Crew,” I said, rising from the couch as casually as I could, “I might start thinking you actually like me.”
He scoffed, his back to me as we both returned to the counter. “Yeah, don’t hold your breath.”
“I’m serious. I think we might be… becoming friends.”
“We are not. We’ve hated each other too long to go soft now.”
I grinned, leaning against the counter, watching him as he started chopping again. As if it hadn’t even happened. “Oh, we are. Friends. Soon we’ll have matching jackets. Or Hawaiian shirts.”
He hesitated, and I caught the briefest flicker of a smile. “I could be persuaded on Hawaiian shirts.”
“Knew it.” I crossed my arms, leaning closer as he worked, the rhythm of his chopping oddly hypnotic. Every now and then, he’d hand me a spoon, letting me taste whatever he was working on, and with every bite, I swooned a little more.
Was it possible to get a crush on someone just by tasting their food? Too late. It was already happening.
The last three weeks had settled into a routine of sorts. Winnie and I met on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays after our rush hour. Although lately, we’d been pushing the time back further, and I wasn’t sure if she noticed it too, but it seemed like each day we worked a little harder to get our customers fed and happy before rushing to one of our kitchens. She had perfected a strawberry tartlet: a crisp, buttery short crust pastry shell filled with smooth vanilla pastry cream, topped with fresh, ripe strawberries arranged in a circular pattern that would have taken me years to master. Each night, she took one home with her and left me with the leftovers—meaning I was now eating about eight tartlets a week. I knew for certain that strawberries were quickly becoming my favorite fruit.
The first few days, weeks even, after my surgery felt like dipping our toes into a hot tub—testing, waiting, and eventually lowering ourselves in. It took a while for us to find our footing anywhere but the kitchen. That was the one place we both thrived. It was where we took turns sharing playlists and podcasts over the speaker, and then we’d go to work, gliding and dancing around each other in tandem. It was entirely effortlesswhen we were doing our jobs; it was when we stopped that we struggled to find our level. When the music died down and the food was done and cold, everything fell into a dull silence, except for the distant traffic.
Ever since I found out the truth about Winnie’s past, something had changed. How could I keep up the whole “I despise you” act when the real reason didn’t even exist anymore? I tried, sure—going as far as keeping all eyes to myself, even when she showed up the other day in the smallest sweater known to mankind. I saw the dimples in her back and had very few other thoughts since. Every day, it became more impossible to ignore this. To ignore her. No wonder half the town lined up at her food truck. I’d line up too, if it meant a minute of her attention or anything she conjured up in there.
And that was before I started cooking with her.
She was on her science-baking kick, dissecting measurements and heat like a chemistry experiment, and I was there with my “let’s toss this in for flair” attitude. And somehow, it worked. Our rhythm locked in, like we’d been doing this together for years instead of weeks. Between her perfect tart shells and my fire-roasted peppers, there was no way people wouldn’t vote for us in the competition. We had looked at the lineup—our food wasn’t just good, it was exciting. It was new, sexy, and alluring but safe and controlled and so incredibly delicious that I was having literal dreams about it.
Every time we shared samples, our kitchens became moaning, groaning messes. We had to force our eyes apart from each other and continue with our days.
And if the food wasn’t enough, she had been getting to know me more too. Not just my personality—I think she always knew how I was—but in this funny way where she could predict me. We had inside jokes now. Actual jokes, not just us constantly ragging on each other about the things we hated.