Page 148 of Cross Ice

He laughed and headed up to his office. I heard his door close and went back to the game film for a few minutes, but I was already thinking about dinner.

How hard could pasta be? Boil water, add pasta, and heat the sauce. Easy.

I went to the kitchen and pulled out a pot. Filled it with water, set it on the stove, and set the burner on high. While that heated, I found a jar of marinara in the pantry, dumped it into a saucepan, and turned on the burner.

See? Cooking.

I went back to my tablet, reviewing the power play breakdown while keeping one eye on the stove. The water boiled. I added the pasta, stirred it once, and went back to the film.

Five minutes later, I smelled something.

Not a good something. Burning something.

“Shit.”

I jumped up and ran to the kitchen. The sauce was smoking, stuck to the bottom of the pan in a black, crusty layer. The pasta water was boiling over onto the stove.

I grabbed the saucepan and moved it off the heat, which made the smoke alarm scream. Then I tried to turn down the burner under the pasta and managed to splash boiling water on my hand.

“Fuck!”

The smoke alarm kept wailing. I was waving a dish towel at it with one hand while running my burned hand under cold water when Evan appeared in the kitchen.

He took one look at the scene—smoking pan, boiling-over pot, me dripping water onto the floor—and pressed his lips together to smother a laugh.

“Don’t,” I said. “Don’t say it.”

“I’m not saying anything.” He was definitely saying it with his face.

“The sauce burned.”

“I can see that.”

“And the pasta⁠—”

“Is probably glue by now.” He crossed to the stove, turned off the burner, and moved the pot to the sink. Then he grabbed the broom and used the handle to press the smoke alarm reset button. Blessed silence.

I stood there with my hand still under the faucet, dripping on the floor, feeling like an idiot.

Evan walked over and slid my hand from under the water to examine it. “It’s not that bad. Just a little red.”

“I burned dinner.”

“You cremated dinner. There’s a difference.” His lips twitched.

“I was going to cook for you.”

“I know.” He turned off the faucet and grabbed a dish towel, carefully drying my hand. “And that’s very sweet. But maybe next time you cook, you should stay in the kitchen.”

“I was watching film.”

“I know.” He kissed my palm, right above the burn. “That’s very you.”

“Don’t kiss me when you’re making fun of me.”

“I’m not making fun of you. I’m just observing that you tried to cook pasta while doing film review and somehow set a jar of sauce on fire.”

“It didn’t catch on fire⁠—”