The kitchen was thick with steam and the rhythmic thud of a knife. I stood at the sink, peeling one potato after another while cold water ran over my fingers. Bill stood right next to me, his shoulder brushing mine every few seconds.

“You’re slicing them too thin, Jena,” he said, taking a potato from me and setting it on the board. “They’ll burn before the insides are even cooked. You need to make the wedges thicker.”

He worked the knife with focus, creating a neat little pile. Bill always followed the instructions. He was wearing his favorite “Best Chef” apron over a gray T-shirt.

“The secret is knowing when to pull them out,” I said, wiping my hands on a towel and sliding a deep bowl of ice water toward him. “Put them in here to soak the starch out. Otherwise, they won’t be crispy.”

I reached for the salt on the top shelf. My shirt rode up, exposing a strip of skin on my stomach. Bill looked away from the knife for a second, slapped me playfully just below the small of my back, and winked.

“Hey, isn’t Richie running late? He said he’d be here by seven.”

I looked at the clock above the stove. It was exactly seven.

“He’s always late, you know that. By the time he finds a parking spot...”

The doorbell cut me off. Bill dropped the knife and wiped his hands on his apron.

“There he is. Get the oil heating up, Jena. Time to start the show.”

He headed to the foyer, leaving me at the stove. I grabbed the heavy cast-iron pot and clicked the burner on. With a soft whoosh, the blue flame licked the bottom of the pan.

Richie walked into the kitchen behind Bill, and the space immediately felt smaller. He tossed his leather jacket onto a chair, revealing a black T-shirt that hugged his broad shoulders.

“Hey, Richie,” I nodded.

“Hey, Jenna. You look amazing,” he said, scanning me from head to toe. His gaze lingered on the open top button of my shirt a beat longer than it should have with my husband right there.

“Bill, how do you even get her to stand over a stove on a Saturday night? If I were you, I’d just order pizza and spend the whole night looking at her.”

“She doesn’t trust delivery,” Bill chuckled, pulling a bottle of bourbon from the cabinet. “She says their fries taste like wet cardboard.”

Richie walked over to the table and stood next to me. Bill turned toward the bar, clinking ice into glasses. In that split second, Richie tilted his head and gave me a quick, barely perceptible wink. There was no friendly warmth in his eyes—only a blunt invitation that sent a sweet ache through my lower stomach.

“Well, if the chef’s in charge, I’m in,” Richie said, reaching for the bowl of potatoes.

I grabbed a large wooden spoon to stir the oil, which was starting to form lazy bubbles.

“Hand it over,” Richie said, reaching out.

As I placed the spoon in his hand, his fingers didn’t just take the wood; they closed over mine, gripping them firmly. It only lasted a second, but I felt the heat of his skin and the roughness of his palm. I pulled my hand away quickly, my pulse thudding at the base of my throat.

“So, what’s the deal with Sunday?” Bill asked, walking back and handing Richie a glass. “You betting on the Eagles?”

“I’m betting they blow the first quarter,” Richie said carelessly, stirring the potatoes. His elbow rhythmically brushed against my forearm. “Their defense is a sieve, Bill. Did you see the last game? It was a joke.”