Free Of Starlight by Dan Rix Page A

not?”
    “Uh . . . I’m good,” she said, eying me warily before she shirked away, leaving me to follow Emory into the kitchen with an uncomfortable knot in my throat.
    I shouldn’t be here.
    Something very weird was going on.
    At the range, Emory manned several boiling pots, each exuding a different heavenly smell.
    “Give her some time,” he said, tossing the dough onto a baking sheet so he could taste test a spoonful of sauce. “She just got back. She’ll warm up to you.”
    “You look really happy,” I said.
    “Catch,” he said, tossing me a huge wedge of cheese, which bounced off my fingers and thudded on the ground, picking up a few stray dog hairs. Embarrassed, I picked them out hurriedly. He watched me, amused, and pointed to a cheese grater and a bowl on the center island. “Give me half a cup.”
    “So am I your assistant?” I said, smiling despite myself.
    “Quit wasting time, Leona. I needed that cheese ten minutes ago. Chop chop.” He grabbed the ball of dough and began tossing it and catching it, his hands shaping it smoothly, stretching it into a disc.
    “Are we making a pizza?” I said.
    “Shh. Don’t ask questions,” he said, laying the circular dough on a baking sheet.
    I peeked into the nearest pan and saw what looked an awful lot like pizza sauce. “Yep. We’re making a pizza.”
    He faced me and planted his fists on the island, eyes impatient. “Okay, Sherlock Holmes, you figured it out. Now how about some cheese? Unless you just want crust and tomato sauce?”
    “Someone’s touchy.” I tried to stare him down, but his stern face made me crack up. Suppressing a smirk, I grabbed the grater and started grating, taken by the sudden urge to giggle.
    Satisfied that I was being a good assistant, he went back to tending the pizza sauce. I watched him out of the corner of my eye, the way his strong triceps tensed against his long sleeves as he balanced a dainty spoon in front of his lips to blow on it. The contrast was almost comical.
    My hand got tired fast, so I switched to my left hand and kept grating. “I can’t believe you cook,” I said. “You don’t seem like the kind of guy who would cook.”
    “Come here,” he said, touching the spoon to his lips. “Tell me what this needs.”
    “I’m not done with the cheese,” I said.
    He glanced back and dropped the spoon. “Whoa, whoa, whoa!” He rushed over and snatched the parmesan out of my hands and pried the grater from my grip. Grated cheese overflowed onto the granite counter. “I said half a cup, not the whole block.”
    “Sorry,” I mumbled, heat rushing to my cheeks.
    “It’s okay. Make up for it. Tell me what this needs.” He led me by the hand over to the range and dipped another spoon into the pizza sauce, which he blew on for a few seconds. He took a taste himself and narrowed his eyes, concentrating on the taste. “Hmm . . . open your mouth.”
    I parted my lips, feeling strangely excited. I knew there was something else I should be doing right now, a nagging doubt at the back of my mind, but I could barely think. His fault. He held the spoon to my lips, and I licked a little bit off, watching for his reaction. Okay, that was unnecessarily sensual .
    He had just spoon-fed me pizza sauce.
    Which meant . . . what?
    Were we dating or something?
    “Well?” he said, peering at me intently. “What does it need?”
    I swallowed and realized I’d forgotten to even taste the sauce. I’d been too focused on him. To me it tasted perfect.
    “Maybe some parmesan cheese?” I guessed.
    He smirked. “The cheese goes on top, Leona, not in the sauce.”
    Duh, Leona. I knew that.
    He nibbled at the spoon himself, eyes thoughtful. Yep, we just shared saliva. He’d done that on purpose, tasted from the same spoon on purpose. He was playing mind games.
    After great deliberation, he announced, “Black pepper,” and reached for a pepper grinder.
    I called him out on that shit. “You already knew it needed