Stirring Up Trouble(29)
“No. You must go back, my Mousa. Your father has found you. He will kill you!”
Lola took a deep breath and forced herself to focus back on her cooking. Her heart raced, just as it had when she’d awakened from that dream. She gripped the spoon in her hand, the cool metal grounding her back in reality.
Lola dumped the peppers in a bowl and started chopping the onions. Braden had shown her the proper way to hold a knife and a couple of techniques to cut the vegetables, but without a lot of practice, it was a slow and tedious process. He’d told her something about onions. What was it again?
Her eyes burned and she tossed the knife on the counter to rub them. Oh, that made it so much worse. She couldn’t open her eyes. Water. She needed to wash her eyes, but she couldn’t find the sink. In her mind, she pictured the layout of the kitchen. The doors were to her right and the sink was in the back, almost straight ahead if the work stations weren’t in her way. She could do this.
Arms out in front of her, she felt around the shelves, knocking over a pot or pan, its loud bang startling her. She stumbled forward and tried once again to force her eyelids open just a bit, but the stinging in her eyes prevented it. Almost there. She bumped up against something solid.
“You cut the core of the onion, didn’t you? Did you listen how to cut an onion?” he asked, leading her by the arm.
She heard the sink turn on and a rip of paper, and then a cold compress covered her eyes. “I listened. I just forgot.”
“You can memorize volume one of the tax code, but you can’t remember how to cut an onion. There’s something ironic in that, don’t you think?”
“No,” she grumbled. She reached up to her eyes and pulled his hand away. She blinked a couple of times, relieved the pain had disappeared. “Thanks for the help. I’ve got to get back to work.” She turned to go back to the onions, but he stopped her with a hand on her arm.
“I think we’ll leave the onions to the kitchen staff. I doubt the food inspector will test you on whether you know how to cut an onion so your eyes don’t water. Are you more comfortable with a knife?”
“Want me to give you a demonstration?” she said in a deadpan voice. No funny business anymore.
“No, I’m sure you’re fine. It’s time to move on to a more complicated dish. The mainstay of Greek food—moussaka, Greek lasagna. I prefer to pre-salt the eggplant, otherwise it soaks up all the oil and defeats the flavor of the vegetable. Luckily, I had the foresight to get everything started this morning.” He opened the refrigerator and grabbed a large bowl. “We’ll bring this over to the prep station. The one without the onions.”
He smiled, but she refused to return it. He was the one who wanted to ignore what had happened. She wasn’t a fool. Shame her once, it was his fault, but shame her twice . . . no, it would still be his fault.
Braden pulled out a bunch of pans then systematically gathered all the ingredients and settled it out in front of them. “We make the meat sauce first.”
She watched as he added oil to the frying pan, heating it until it sizzled. He was in his element, throwing spices into the meat and giving her a step-by-step recipe for making the filling of the dish. Of course, she’d never remember unless he wrote the recipe down. Why did she need to know this?
“Braden, I appreciate everything you’re doing for me, but I don’t see why I need to waste time in the kitchen learning how to use a knife and how to make moussaka. You said you’d give me your grandmother’s recipes, and if you can’t find them, write everything down for me. I can do this without having to spend every single moment of the day in your presence.”
He set his knife down and turned her toward him, getting in her face. “Do you want to tell me what’s going on with you? You’ve been quiet these last couple of days. Did you . . . do you regret what we did?” He swept his hand down the side of her neck.
Her body responded even as her mind rebelled. She instantly grew wet and ready for him, her breasts notably tender underneath her T-shirt, tremors fluttering low in her belly. What was that about shame her twice?
“I don’t regret what we did, but it can’t happen again,” she said. “I thought we agreed on that and that’s why you haven’t made a move on me these last couple of days.”
He continued to stroke her neck, confusing her. She wanted to relent, wanted to drop to her knees and pay back the favor. Instead, she stayed his hand and took a step back.
Little lines formed around his lips and eyes. He took his hand off her neck and stuck it in his pocket. “I never agreed to that. I was giving you space. I didn’t want you to think I didn’t honor your wishes about not having sex.”