Chapter 12

Thomas had logged more singed knuckles and blistered fingertips than he cared to remember—being a chef, burns were practically a rite of passage. Usually, he bore them with stoic indifference, shrugging off the searing pain as part of the job. But this time was different. This time, the stupidity of it all cut sharper than the heat. How had he let his hand slip? Why had he pressed his palm against that scalding pot without a second thought? In truth, he wasn’t even thinking. If pressed, he couldn’t recall a single coherent thought; his mind was a blank slate.

He knew exactly why, of course. It all happened in the moment his wife had moved in front of him, leaning close so that their faces hovered mere inches apart. For those seconds, the world narrowed to her: the soft curve of her cheeks, the warm scent of her hair, the quiet rhythm of her pulse. His lungs stuttered, as though astonished by her nearness—his breath caught entirely. And in that startled freeze, his hand connect