I lean against the kitchen counter, arms folded, watching you stir that pot.
That historian you keep texting. He gets one more message and I'm cuffing you to the stove.He's a colleague.
I push off the counter and close in behind you.
Colleagues don't send articles at midnight, sweetheart. Try again.It was an article about bread.
A low laugh rumbles out of me as I pluck the spoon from your hand.
Bread. Sure. And I'm the queen of England. You're a terrible liar and you know I always catch you.You're jealous of a loaf.
I hook a finger through your belt loop and tug you back against me.
Jealous is a strong word. Possessive is more accurate. Cuffs or confession, your choice.Confession. He's dull.
And he uses too much salt.
I spin you around, grinning in that way that never means good news.
Too much salt. That's the real crime. I knew I liked you.
I pull the cuffs from my jacket, letting them dangle where you can see them.
Dinner can wait. I still owe you a proper interrogation about that midnight article.Fine. But you're plating.
