Tempted. Megan Hart

I blushed, and blushed harder at the heat rising along my throat. I had no reason to be embarrassed. Well, aside from the disaster that was my kitchen and personal appearance.

      Alex made a low purring noise of approval. “My favorite. How’d you know?”

      “I didn’t—” He was teasing. “Who doesn’t like brownies?”

      “Good point.” He laughed. He looked around the kitchen again, as if taking in every detail. I found myself following his gaze with mine, cataloging the framed prints on the walls, the wallpaper, slightly peeling in the corner. The scrapes in the linoleum where the chairs had worn the pattern to whiteness.

      “We’re fixing it up,” I said, like I had to apologize for the kitchen’s imperfections.

      His gaze swiveled back to me. It was disconcerting, in a way, yet also familiar. Alex had the same focus as James, though on my husband it was offset by a somehow greater sense of impermanence. James could be intense on whatever had currently grabbed his attention. He was the blackbird with a beady eye, focused on the shiny. Alex reminded me of a lion waiting in the grass, seemingly sated until his prey got close enough to capture his notice.

      “It’s nice. You’ve done some nice things.”

      “Oh, you’ve been here before?” I shook my head at my own question. “Of course you have.”

      “Back when Jamie’s grandparents lived here, yeah. Long time ago. It’s nicer now.” His mouth stretched into another slow grin. “Smells better, too.”

      There was no reason for me to be intimidated by him. He wasn’t doing anything. He was, in fact, being quite pleasant. I wanted to return his smile, and I did … but it was with a sort of hitching, confused reluctance. It was the kind of smile you give to someone who’s just offered you a mint on the subway. Wondering if they’re being kind, or if your breath’s offending. Was he just being polite, or did he mean it?

      I didn’t know.

      “I hope they taste good, at least. I’m not having much luck with them so far,” I admitted with a glance at the bowl.

      He tilted his head to look at the mess on the center island. “How come?”

      “Oh …” I shrugged with a small, self-conscious laugh. “I thought I’d be fancy and make them from scratch instead of the box. I should’ve stuck with the prepackaged mix.”

      “Nah. Things made fresh are always better.” Alex moved closer to the island, and therefore, closer to me. He looked into the bowl. Without his gaze pinning me, I could watch him. “So you put the butter in with the eggs? What’s next?”

      He came all the way around, and we ended up shoulder to shoulder. He hadn’t looked so tall from across the room. My head would reach the bottom of his chin. On James, I could reach his mouth without standing on my toes. Alex turned his head and gave me a look I couldn’t interpret.

      “Anne?”

      “Oh … oh, I guess it’s right there.” I leaned over to stab the cookbook with my finger. Several grease splotches marked the pages. “Melt the chocolate. Melt the butter. Mix together. Add the sugar and vanilla ….”

      I stopped when I saw him staring at me. I returned his smile with a tentative one. It seemed to please him. He leaned forward, the tiniest amount. His voice dipped low, sharing a secret.

      “Want to know the trick?”

      “Of making brownies?”

      His grin got broader. I expected him to say no. That he had another trick to reveal, something sweeter even than chocolate. I leaned forward, too, just a little.

      “Hot butter will melt chocolate. You need a low flame.”

      “Will it?” I looked at the cookbook so I didn’t have to look at him. More heat rose, burning the tips of my ears. I thought I must look ridiculous and tried to pretend it didn’t matter.

      “Want me to show you?” At my hesitation he straightened. His smile changed, gave us a bit of distance. Still friendly, but less intense. “I can’t promise you they’ll win any awards, but—”

      “Sure. Yes, sure,” I said decisively. “James’s family will be here pretty soon and I don’t want to be worrying about dessert once they start arriving.”

      “Yeah. Because they’ll take up all your attention. I know what you mean.” Alex reached for the bowl and turned toward the stove, where I’d left the double boiler I’d been using earlier.

      He would know just what I meant, I thought, watching him dump the cooling butter-and-egg mixture back into the pot. He twisted the knob on the stove, bending to get his face at the level of the flame and setting it with a delicate touch. He grabbed up a spoon from the tool caddy on the counter and stirred the mixture.

      “Bring me the chocolate.” He spoke like he was used to being obeyed, and I didn’t hesitate. I tore open the bag and gave it to him. Without looking at me, he shook the package gently, dropping chip after chip into the butter as he stirred it. “Anne. Come and see.”

      I moved to peer over his shoulder. The butter now had dark brown swirls that got larger and larger as Alex added more chocolate chips. After a few more moments the mix was a gooey, velvety liquid.

      “Beautiful,” I murmured, not really meaning to speak, and he looked up at me.

      This time I didn’t feel like he’d snared me with his gaze. I wasn’t prey. He assessed me, then turned back to the thickening batter.

      “Is everything else ready?”

      “Yes.”

      I gathered the rest of the ingredients. Together we mixed and poured and scraped the bowl with my serviceable white spatula that was guaranteed not to crack or stain. The brownie mix smelled liked heaven and filled the baking pan exactly the way it was supposed to.

      “Perfect,” I said, and slid it into the oven. “Thank you.”

      “And of course it has to be perfect, right?” Alex leaned against the island, hands gripping the edge so his elbows bent akimbo.

      I wiped my hands on the dishcloth and started putting utensils into the sink. “It’s nice if it is, isn’t it?”

      “Even a flawed brownie still tastes damn good.” He watched me clean without offering to help.

      I paused, mixing bowl in my hand. “Depends on the flaw. I mean, if it’s too dry or crumbly, it might not look right but will taste good. Or if the ingredients are wrong it can look perfect on the outside and taste terrible.”

      “Exactly.”

      I wondered if he’d been baiting me to say something he’d been thinking. “Well. They looked perfect. Unless they burn.”

      “They won’t burn.”

      “But they might not taste good, either?” I laughed at him. “Is that what you’re saying?”

      “You never know, do you?” He shrugged and gave me an upward, sideways, roundabout glance.

      Teasing. He was teasing me, judging me. Trying to draw me out. Trying to feel me out. Figure me out.

      “I guess we’d better taste it then.” I held out the bowl. “You go first.”

      Alex raised a brow and pursed his lips, but pushed himself off the island and held out a hand. “In case they’re vile?”

      “A good hostess always allows her guests to have the first portion,” I said sweetly.

      “A perfect hostess makes sure everything’s grand before she serves it,” Alex countered, but he scooped a finger along the bowl’s side. It came away smeared with chocolate.

      He raised his finger, showing me. Being theatrical. He opened his mouth, tongue showing intimately pink.