Free Let It Breathe by Tawna Fenske

the product information on the back of the container. No mention of wine. She sniffed it.
    “Why does it seem like a bad sign that you’re sniffing the food?” Clay asked as he returned to the kitchen and leaned against the counter.
    Reese jumped and set the pesto down. “It’s fine,” she stammered. “I was just checking—just making sure it’s okay to serve you.”
    He gave her a funny look but didn’t comment. Reese opened the egg carton and reached for her skillet.
    “Let me dice the tomatoes,” he said, moving around her to grab the cutting board from beside the fridge. “Where’s your knife?”
    “I’ve got it—You don’t have to do that.”
    “You can trust me with sharp objects, Reese. This drawer?”
    “No, that one over there.” She reached past him, her arm brushing his chest as she moved to hand it to him. She almost dropped it on the floor. She turned and reached into the cupboard above the stove, pulling out a plate.
    “Here, you can put them on this,” she said.
    “Thank you.”
    He was quiet as he began dicing, the knife making squishy noises as it sliced through the tomato flesh. “I don’t remember you being this jumpy,” he said finally.
    “I’m just a little off, I guess. Mornings aren’t really my thing, you know.”
    The second the words were out of her mouth, she felt her cheeks heat up. She opened her mouth to stammer an apology, then shut it.
    He’s probably not even thinking about that. And even if he is, you were gone before morning came—
    “Is this a good size?”
    Reese whirled and looked at him, half expecting a penis joke. He was standing with the knife in one hand and a pile of perfectly diced Roma tomatoes in front of him.
    “That’s great. Thank you.”
    “My pleasure. Want me to shred cheese?”
    “I’ve got it. Really, just sit down. Please.”
    He grinned. “I’m making you nervous?”
    She sighed. “Look, this is just—it’s a little weird for me, okay? Having you here, having you sober, having you suddenly turn up this totally changed person with impeccable manners and this constant urge to be helpful.”
    He nodded and set the knife down, moving toward the table without another word. He pulled out a chair and sat. “Got it.”
    Reese bit her lip as she picked up the container of pesto, trying to gauge his mood. Had she offended him? He didn’t look angry, but she really couldn’t tell. The old Clay had been simpler, with emotions amplified by alcohol and a missing social filter. But this Clay—
    “I want us to be friends, Reese,” he said at last. “I know it’s a little odd—a former drunk and a vineyard manager. I ruined a lot of friendships when I was a drunk, so the ones I have left—” He swallowed. “You and Eric are really important to me.”
    She waited to see if he’d say anything else. If he’d mention what had been flitting at the edge of her memory since he’d appeared in her doorway the day before.
    “Friends,” she repeated. “I think I can do that.”
    “Good. I just don’t want—” He stopped, seeming to consider his words. “I don’t want things to be awkward between us. You know?”
    Reese nodded, not sure she did know but certain she didn’t want to have this conversation right now when she hadn’t finished sorting through her own feelings.
    “Right,” she said. “I don’t want things to be awkward, either.”
    “Good. I’m glad.”
    Reese looked down at the omelet, her hands shaking as she nudged it with her spatula. “So we’re friends. I can do this.”
    He stood up again, unfolding his long legs from underneath the table. Reese gripped the handle of her omelet pan hard as Clay closed the distance between them in three slow strides.
    He stopped in front of her, so close—closer than he’d been in years. She could feel his breath ruffling her hair. She stared straight at the center of his chest, afraid that if she looked up she wouldn’t be able to stop herself