“What’s the difference between these two cuts of meat?”
“The fat,” she said, pointing out the marbling. “Roasts are always better with some fat and these were—”
“Grain fed,” a rough, gravelly voice said from behind her.
She turned toward the man who had finished her sentence. He was a bit taller than Swift but so thin his bones were prominent in his face and neck. His hair was so short, almost shaved, and his jaw had a shadow of stubble. He had bright blue eyes that held a spark of amusement. “Yes,” she said finally. “They were.”
“How the hell do you know that, Ram?” Swift stepped forward and clasped the other man’s forearm in greeting.
“I like to read,” the man replied. “I enjoy learning obscure things like meat science.”
“You would. Alys, this is Rampage.” Swift introduced them. “He’s a good friend of mine.”
“Ma’am.” Rampage nodded at her. “It’s nice to meet you.”
“And you.” She noticed the stiff way he stood, as if he were uncomfortable or uncertain of how to act around her. Coupled with his thinness, he looked desperate for a hot meal and fellowship. “Would you like to have dinner with us?”
“Ma’am?” Rampage seemed taken aback.
“Dinner,” she repeated. “Would you like to join us tonight?”
Rampage glanced at Swift as if seeking permission. “Swift?”
“We’d love to have you, Rampage.”
“I’ll be there.”
“I’ll send you a message with the details,” Swift said.
“Sounds good.”
After he left, Swift explained, “It’s a taboo to visit a new couple during their first few days together.”
“Oh.” She blanched. “I didn’t know. It wasn’t in the pamphlets I read, or I guess I haven’t read that far yet.”
“It’s fine,” Swift assured her. “Rampage could use a good meal.”
“What happened to him?”
“He and his crew were marooned on a frozen wasteland planet for eight months.”
Her eyes widened. “Eight months?”
He nodded somberly. “He’s lucky to be alive.”
“He seems very thin,” she said, already wondering how much butter she was allowed to buy. “Do I have time to bake bread?”
“I don’t know how long that takes.”
“Well, it depends on how fast the dough rises, but I think our kitchen is warm enough that it won’t take more than an hour.” She walked with purpose now, moving through the aisles to grab the ingredients for a nice dinner, a breakfast tomorrow and something light for lunch. Swift had ordered what he called a “Kitchen In A Box” that had been delivered before he had Grabbed her. It contained pantry basics, allegedly. She had a bone to pick with the person who decided what those basics were considering there wasn’t a single scoop of yeast in it.
By the time she was done shopping, Swift had two baskets in his hands. At the front of the shop, they bagged their own groceries in reusable bags. When she asked about paying, he explained the items were scanned as they went into the baskets and deducted from his account after they passed through the double doors. She couldn’t even wrap her head around how that worked, but it seemed to make perfect sense to Swift. It was another reminder of how different their lives were.
In the elevator, they were joined by two other couples. One of the men was very friendly, but the other scowled and kept a hand clamped on the back of his wife’s neck. Was he like that all the time? Gripping and controlling?
Maybe I have it wrong?
She cast a furtive glance at the woman’s face and noticed how relaxed and calm she looked. Did she like being held that way? Being publicly claimed? Did it calm her? Help her feel safe and protected?
Alys pondered that question as she left the elevator at Swift’s side. When they were inside their home, she began to unpack the groceries. Swift hovered nearby. “Do you want my help?”
Her first instinct was to tell him no. She had cooked thousands of meals and didn’t need help, but it would be nice to have company. “Sure.” She smiled at him. “Help me put these away and then we’ll make bread.”
As she handed over their groceries, he placed them where she wanted them. There was hardly any storage in their home, only a few cabinets and shelves for a pantry. She would have to adjust her mindset toward meal planning and stockpiling. Not to mention cutting back on servings per meal.
“What are you thinking about so hard?” Swift asked as he leaned back against the counter and watched her measure out yeast into the warm water. “The recipe?”
“No,” she replied with a short laugh. “I could make bread in my sleep.”
“Then what?”
“How many normal person sized servings you eat in a meal,” she answered. “I was thinking about how I’m used to cooking enough food for at least a dozen hungry bellies. You probably eat as much as all of my younger brothers combined so paring my recipes back to five or six servings should be all right.”
“If you cook half as good as you fuck, I won’t leave a single crumb on my plate.”
“Swift!” She swatted him with a dish towel as she blushed with mortification. “You can’t say things like that!”
“Why not?” He moved behind her and slipped his arms around her waist. He nuzzled the curve of her neck and placed ticklish kisses on her skin. “It’s true.”
“Be that as it may,” she protested, her face hot and her heart racing. “It’s hardly appropriate conversation for the kitchen.”
He grunted against her neck. “I suppose that means bending you over this counter right now is out of the question.”
She gulped at the image of him making love to her right out here in the kitchen. It was an image that sent a steak of needful heat through her body. Brazenly, she said, “Ask me again after we finish the bread dough.”
“I will.” He noisily kissed her cheek. “Show me how this is done.”
“Wash your hands!” she chided, pushing his hands away from the bowl.
“Yes, ma’am,” he grumbled. After drying his hands, he returned to her side and pointed at the bowl where the yeast had gone foamy. “Why is it doing that?”
“The yeast is activated by the warm water and sugar. It starts to bubble up which tells me that it will make my bread rise.”
He leaned closer to inspect it. “It smells odd.”
“I like the way it smells. It makes me think of quiet mornings with my mother and hot, fresh bread slathered with butter.”
“It looks like something that belongs in a laboratory, like a sample from a new planet being studied for signs of life.”
Amused by his mistrust of the yeast, she said, “Wait until I have a jar of starter on the counter.”
“I don’t think I even want to know what that is.”
“Here.” She handed him a spoon. “Use those strong hands of yours to stir all this flour into the wet ingredients.”
Together, they finished the bread dough and then she turned it out onto the floured counter. As she kneaded, she explained the process. “So, you work the dough like this, folding and stretching and squishing until it becomes more pliable and softer.”