Page 79 of The KING Review

I groan, which only makes her laugh meaner and brighter as I turn to stop the timer bleating.

“Hey, that’s your job—you’re supposed to look after your baby girl, Daddy.” When I spin around to glare at her, she just raises her shitty cocktail.

“You’re evil,” I say, but there’s no heat in it, only fondness.

Neve just grins, and I shake my head. I might ruin her dress tonight, but she’s going to ruin me.

Chapter Twenty-Three

Not the Ideal

Grant

“Will you show me how to make the tostones?” Neve asks casually.

I’m grinning like a maniac as I slide the beef off the heat for now, turning to the plantains. “Yeah? All right. Come here.”

She pads over, leaning her hip against the counter. As she tips her head, every gold facet in her eyes sparks with curiosity.

I grab a plantain and set it on the cutting board. “First, ends off. Then, you score the skin. Don’t try to peel it like a banana, you’ll lose your mind. See? Shallow cuts, just through the skin.” She watches my hands, so focused that a shiver runs down my spine. I’m not used to being the object of this much attention. It makes my body feel bigger, my hands clumsier.

I carefully hand her the knife. “Your turn.”

She bites the inside of her cheek. “Are you sure you want to let me loose with this? I have a history of kitchen accidents.”

I smirk. “I’m right here, angel.”

She lines up her cut, tongue poked out at the corner of her mouth, and drags the blade down the length of the plantain with surprising finesse. She peels the section off, glancing up for approval.

“Perfect.” Just like you, I don’t say. I take the knife back to slice thick rounds. “About an inch thick. You fry them once, then press them. They need to be chunky, or they’ll end up too thin.”

She holds out her hand, looking at the slick of plantain left there, then sticks a finger in her mouth to taste, smirking up at me. “Starchy, but… good. Like a potato but… not?”

I nod and try not to think about what her mouth would look like wrapped around my fingers (or something else) instead. “They’re nothing special by themselves, but when they’re fried and smashed and fried again, it’s something else.”

She hums, pleased.

I set the skillet on the stove, pour in the oil, and watch her watch me. I dip the end of a wooden spoon to test the temperature, and when it bubbles, I nod.

“Ready?” I ask.

She bounces excitedly on the balls of her feet. “Hell yes. Put me in, coach.”

I snort a laugh. “Stand in front of me.”

Neve slides obediently between me and the stove, her back to my chest. I bracket her with my arms, bringing the cutting board of plantain to the side of the stove, then hand her the tongs.

“Just pop them in carefully,” I murmur, my mouth at her neck. I’m not trying to distract her, but I can’t help dropping a kiss to her throat. She shivers, then does as she asks. The first one goes in perfectly, starting to sizzle. “Good girl.”

Neve shivers, lining up another chunk of plantain with the tongs. It hits the oil, then spits—a single bead of gold flicking up to catch the inside of her wrist. She yelps, jerks back, and nearly takes the whole skillet with her.

Fuck.

I grab her fast, one hand catching her wrist, the other reaching around her to kill the stove. There’s already a red welt forming. I want to punch myself in the face.

“Are you okay?” I step backward, dragging her with me, steering her to the sink with a hand tight at her waist. She’s laughing a little, but I want to throw up.

“Grant,” she says, like it’s no big deal. “It’s⁠—”