Page 24 of Better than Famous

"You’re making it harder than it needs to be." He stepped closer. "Want me to show you?"

He didn’t push me aside, so I nodded. He stepped up behind me, positioning himself so that his chest was inches from my back. He reached around me, his arms caging me in against the counter, and picked up the knife.

"Put your hand on the handle." His voice was low, right near my ear. It sent a shiver tickling down my backbone.

I reached out and wrapped my fingers around the black handle.

"No," he corrected gently. “Pinch the blade with your thumb and forefinger. It gives you more control."

He placed his large, warm hand over mine, adjusting my grip. His skin was rough, calloused from work and contrasted sharply with my manicured fingers. Guiding my hand, he moved the knife so the flat of the blade rested on top of a fresh clove of garlic. "Now smash it. Use the heel of your other hand."

I hesitated. "Won’t I cut myself?"

"The blade is flat, Sutton. You can’t cut yourself if the edge is facing the board. Trust me."

Trust me.

I took a breath, once more inhaling the scent of him—soap, male, and warm skin. I brought my left hand down hard on the flat of the blade. Crunch.

Ben lifted my hand and the knife to reveal the crushed clove. The skin had split open and practically fell off.

"Oh," I said, feeling a ridiculous surge of accomplishment. "That was... satisfying."

"Cooking usually is," he murmured. He didn’t step back. He kept his hand over mine, his body heat radiating into my back. "Now, to chop it. Keep the tip of the knife on the board. Rock the blade back and forth. Don’t lift it."

He guided me through the motion. Rock, chop, rock, chop. It was a rhythm.

It was music.

I relaxed into it, leaning back slightly, letting him steer. I could feel the rise and fall of his chest against my shoulder blades. I could feel the strength in his forearm as he controlled the knife. It was the most intimate thing I had done with a man in years, and we were chopping garlic.

"You’re doing it." His voice rumbled in his chest. "See? You’re not helpless."

"I never said I was helpless," I replied, turning my head slightly. "Just... uneducated."

He turned his head at the same time. Our faces were inches apart. Flecks of gold highlighted his green eyes, and there was a small scar on his chin. The air in the kitchen grew saturated with the smell of pungent garlic and sudden, sharp desire.

Ben’s gaze dropped to my lips, then snapped back up to my eyes. He cleared his throat and stepped back, breaking the contact. The loss of his warmth was instant and jarring.

"Okay," he said, his voice a little rougher than before. "Garlic is chopped. Now the stove. You know how to turn on a gas stove?”

I wanted to make a quip about it being a good thing a firefighter stood right behind me, but my mouth was suddenly too dry to speak. So I simply nodded. He stayed on the other side of the kitchen while I lit the burner, but I could feel his eyes on me, watching every move. I wasn’t just learning to cook something. I was learning that competence—the simple, rugged ability to survive—was infinitely sexier than fame.

We sat at the small table by the window, the rain beginning to streak the glass again as night fell. It was the first meal we had eaten together where there were no secrets. No wigs. No wedding singer lies. Just Ben and Sutton.

"It’s actually edible," I said, twirling a forkful of pasta. "I mean, it’s not Michelin-starred, but it’s hot."

"Garlic covers a multitude of sins," Ben said, taking a bite. "It’s good. You did good."

The praise warmed me more than the food, so I decided to brave a real conversation. "So did you grow up here? In the Keys?"

Ben stopped chewing. A shadow passed over his features, pulling the corners of his mouth into a tight, hard line. He stared down at his plate and tore a piece of white bread in half.

"I saw enough of the world in my twenties to know I was better off staying put," he said, his voice dropping a notch. "It took me a few years to figure out my path." Before I could think about that cryptic statement, he set the torn bread on his napkin, and the dark intensity smoothed back into his usual guarded calm. "I did a stint in Miami for the fire academy. Thought about going further. But this place... it has gravity. My family is here. The resort is here. I’m the oldest. If I leave, the frame falls apart."

"The frame?"

"It’s how I think of it," he said, staring out the dark window. "My siblings—Eli, Harper, Austin, all of them—they’re the picture. The color. I’m the frame. I keep the structure sound so they can be... whatever they are."