Page 102 of The Wild Card

“It’s fine,” he says quickly. “It’s, uh… fine.”

We stand there for a moment, the kitchen suddenly feeling very small.

“So.” I clear my throat. “You want to learn to make this or not? Because I need help if I’m going to test three recipes tonight.”

“I said I’d help.” He takes the knife back, positioning his hands the way I showed him. “What are we making again?”

“Filet mignon with a red wine reduction, truffle mashed potatoes, and a chocolate soufflé that’ll either be perfect or a complete disaster.” I tie my apron tighter. “It’s for the ‘Cooking to Impress’ chapter. Date night food.”

“That seems like a lot of food for two people.”

“It’s about the experience, not the quantity. Although—” I grin at him “—you’ll definitely be eating leftovers.”

He makes a noise that might be approval and starts chopping. His technique is still wrong, but he’s trying, and something about watching Crew Jensen—decorated FBI agent—carefully dicing an onion makes my chest feel tight.

Don’t, I tell myself. Don’t go there.

Too late. I’ve been going there for weeks.

“Okay, onions in the pot for the reduction.” I guide him through the next steps—searing the filets to get a perfect crust, building the red wine sauce, peeling and boiling the potatoes until they’re fork-tender. He follows instructions with military precision, asking clarifying questions, taking mental notes.

“You’re actually pretty good at this,” I tell him.

“I’m good at following procedures.” He almost smiles. Almost.

While the potatoes simmer, we move on to the focaccia. Because what’s a fancy steak dinner without warm bread to soak up the sauce?

“You have to knead it,” I explain, dumping the shaggy dough onto the floured counter. “Work the gluten. Make it smooth and elastic.”

“Show me.”

I demonstrate—heel of my hand pushing forward, fold, turn, repeat. The rhythm is meditative, familiar. I’ve been making bread since I was six years old, standing on a step stool in my grandmother’s kitchen.

“Your turn.”

Crew approaches the dough like it might attack him. He presses down too hard, and it sticks to his palm.

“Gentle,” I say. “It’s not a suspect. You don’t have to subdue it.”

“This is harder than it looks.” His mouth twists with a wry look.

“Here.” I move behind him, reaching around to place my hands over his. “Like this. Feel the rhythm?”

He goes very still.

I’m pressed against his back, my arms alongside his, my hands guiding his through the motions. I can feel the tension in his shoulders, the way his breathing has gone shallow.

“Emmie.” His voice is rough.

“Just feel it,” I murmur. “Push, fold, turn. Push, fold, turn.”

We knead together, my body moving with his, and it’s—

It’s a lot.

“I think I’ve got it,” he says after a minute, and I step back quickly, my face burning.

“Right. Yeah. Good. You’ve got it.”