finger in our food?”
“Yes, Noah, I did. Deal with it. It’s only you and me eating this—I promise I won’t try to package it to serve at a restaurant or something.” I wiggled my fingers. “Now do you want a taste or not?”
His eyes darkened, the pupils dilating as just the very tip of his tongue emerged to run over his lips before he opened his mouth enough for me to slip my finger inside.
I hadn’t thought this through. I hadn’t taken into account how intensely sexual this move would be until Noah’s mouth enveloped my finger, sucking it lightly. His eyes stayed on mine as he held my hand tenderly in both of his while his tongue teased at my fingertip, making my legs tremble with a need I hadn’t even known was there until he’d sparked it alive.
I was on a dangerous edge, on the verge of closing my eyes, moaning and dropping to my knees. The risk-loving part of my brain dared me to push the situation, to ease my body closer to Noah and press against him, just to see what might happen next. But the part of me that existed to avoid embarrassment and pain was yelling a different message.
Abort, abort! Pull your finger away! Take a step back! Make a joke! Anything!
I cleared my throat and tugged my hand away. “So . . . what do you think?”
Noah’s was raspy. “Delicious,” he murmured. “Best thing I’ve had in my mouth in a very long time.”
I swallowed and moved to the sink to wash my hands. “If you think that’s good, wait’ll you taste it on the wrap, with roasted broccoli and asparagus . . . yum.”
“Yeah.” Noah still didn’t sound convinced, but hey, he’d been game to try, so I had to give him points for that.
I opened a cabinet door and slid out two wooden cutting boards before I found my two favorite knives. Setting a board and a knife in front of Noah, I patted the pile of fresh veggies in front of us.
“Okay, so if you handle the broccoli and the zucchini, I’ll cut the asparagus and sauté the spinach. Just wash them off and then cut the broccoli into florets and the zucchini into long slices.”
“I can do that.” He reached under the counter for a colander, dropped the vegetables into the basket and carried them to the sink to wash. I’d learned that Noah was competent in the kitchen; he followed directions, and his cutting was precise, but he needed explicit directions. Even so, he was slow and methodical. I had a hunch that his mother hadn’t let her three sons do much in the way of kitchen work, and while he’d mentioned cooking with Angela now and then, it had probably been his late wife handling the lion’s share of the task.
Once I saw that he was on the right track, I washed the spinach and asparagus and got down to work myself. We had Ed Sheeran playing on low in the background, a glass of chilled white wine was in front of me, and I was content in my little kitchen, happily preparing a meal. This felt . . . comfortable, I decided. I could easily envision this as my life, cooking with Noah at the end of the day, leisurely catching up with each other as we prepared our evening meal.
“When did you become a vegan?” Noah’s question interrupted my musing. “Or were you always one? Was that how your family ate?”
“Uh, no,” I chuckled. “My parents are both carnies. As in, they eat meat. I did, too, growing up—I lived on fast food burgers and shakes.” Setting aside the spears of asparagus, I reached for the spinach. “But when I was in college, I minored in sustainability, and I learned about how harmful some of the animal raising operations can be to our environment. I got to be friends with the professor who was my advisor, and she was vegan. I had always thought that vegans only ate, like, lettuce and greens, but when I saw some of her meals, I realized that her diet was actually amazingly varied and super accessible. She taught me some of her recipes, and then . . .” I shrugged. “It just became part of me. Within a few months, some of the digestive health issues I’d had went away. I think I was probably mildly dairy intolerant. Anyway, that’s how it happened.”
“Huh. And you don’t miss meat at