Andi’s jaw clenched at that. “That’s bullshit, though.”
“What?”
“If you marry a firefighter, you know there’s an inherent risk in that job. If you love that person, you’re taking on that risk with them. You don’t get to bail when they need you most because it’s hard or upsetting.”
“I wasn’t the easiest patient.”
She scoffed. “Who would be? You’d been through major physical and mental trauma. No one else gets to dictate to you what the proper way to respond to trauma is. Screw that.”
He eyed her, his gaze holding hers. “Did someone try to do that to you?”
She sighed. “Some people in my family would argue that what I went through wasn’t a trauma at all. So yeah, been there.”
He frowned, deep lines cutting in around his mouth. “That’s… I’m sorry. You know if you ever want to talk about what happened, I’m a pretty good listener.”
She nodded, the offer hitting her in a tender spot. “Thanks. I’ll let you know.” She forced a smile. “But enough about all that. I was promised tacos.”
His eyes crinkled at the corners. “And tacos the lady shall have.” He held out a container of grape tomatoes. “After she learns how to cook them for herself.”
She smirked and walked over, taking the container from him. “I have a feeling we’re going to be ordering pizza after this.”
“Nope.” He placed a hand on her shoulder and gave her a knowing look. “I have full confidence.”
“In me?”
He winked and patted her shoulder. “In my teaching skills.”
She rolled her eyes. “Ha.”
“Go ahead and wash those tomatoes and the rest of the produce,” he said, cocking his head toward the sink. “I’m going to get everything else set up.”
“Washing vegetables, I can do.” She grabbed a colander and went to work on the tomatoes, limes, cilantro, and peppers.
When she was done, he patted the spot next to him at her rollaway island. “Join me, sous chef.”
He’d grabbed the butcher-block cutting board that she’d bought on impulse at HomeGoods one day just because it looked pretty and set it atop the island along with the knives and some other items he’d gathered from her kitchen. She took her spot next to him and set the bowl of clean produce off to the side.
His arm brushed against hers, the hair tickling her skin, as he grabbed the tomatoes, and goose bumps chased up her arm. “For tacos, you could make traditional salsa, which would involve a blender or a food processor, or you could make pico de gallo, which leaves it chunkier. Tonight, we’ll tackle pico.” He pulled a knife from the block. “For most vegetables, you’re going to use a straight-edged knife, but for soft-skinned things like tomatoes, serrated is better.”
She eyed the pile of tomatoes. “We have to cut each one?”
“Yes. They’re more work, but cherry tomatoes tend to be sweeter than regular ones—unless you stop at one of the roadside stands and find some locally grown Creole tomatoes, which are pretty much the tomatoes all other tomatoes aspire to be.”
She laughed. “The grand pooh-bah of tomatoes.”
“Without a doubt, but these little ones will be good practice for you. They’re slippery little suckers and have a tendency to roll away, which can cause you to cut your finger.”
She gave him a skeptical look. “Maybe we shouldn’t start here. These sound like the villains of the tomato world.”
“Not if you know how to handle them.” He grabbed two white plates he’d taken out of her cabinet. “Here’s the trick.”
He flipped the plate over and then put a layer of tomatoes onto the bottom of the plate where the rim kept them from rolling off. Then he took another plate and set it atop, trapping the tomatoes between.
He took her elbow gently and guided her in front of him. “Now, they’ll stay put and you can slice a bunch in half at once.”
His arms came around each side of her, and his body pressed gently against her back. A hard wall of muscle. She sucked in a breath at the heat and feel of him.
“This okay?” he asked.
She swallowed past the tightness in her throat. Part of her recognized she was caged in by a guy with a knife, but the other part of her felt every inch of strong, beautiful man behind her. The two sides warred for control of her thoughts. The better side won. “I’m good.”
“Great,” he said softly. He placed the knife in her right hand. “Put your left hand on top of the plate to keep the tomatoes from escaping. Then take this knife and slice horizontally between the plates. Use a small sawing motion back and forth.”
Andi wet her lips and placed her hand on the plate. Hill’s breath coasted against her neck. She took the knife and placed it sideways between the plates. Her first attempt, a tomato rolled out.
“Push down a little more,” he said in a quiet voice. He put his hand over the one that held the knife. “Like this.”
He guided her hand in a gentle sawing motion while she increased pressure on the plate, and soon the knife had made it to the other side of the dish. But she couldn’t remember how it had gotten there because all she could think about was how good Hill felt against her, around her, how he smelled like mint and fresh-cut grass.
“There you go,” Hill said. He lifted the plate, revealing a bunch of perfectly halved tomatoes. “And we didn’t draw any blood.”
Andi smiled down at their handiwork. “Score.”
“Now they’ll be safe to quarter with the smaller serrated knife,” he said. He handed her a different knife. “They won’t roll away now.”
He showed her how to protect her fingers while she was chopping. He guided her through dicing an onion, and laughed along with her when she promptly ruined her mascara with onion tears. He taught her that she could ignore when recipes said to pick off individual cilantro leaves, that the stems could be chopped up with the leaves and it all tasted good. Before long, they were squeezing lime into brightly colored pico de gallo. And all the while, he hadn’t stopped touching her. Not aggressively. Not with innuendo. But in a way that made her feel more and more comfortable.
Hill stepped from behind her and grabbed a spoon. He scooped up some of the pico and held it out to her. “Now for the fun part.”
Andi smiled. “I feel like we’ve already been having the fun part.”
His eyes sparked with pleasure at that. “Truth. But go ahead and taste the fruits of your labor.”