Spin by Bella Love

one-trick pony—you couldn’t use it to smash a garlic
clove—but it was a pretty awesome trick. As I worked, I explained
the complicated nature of my chicken to Finn. He mostly looked
tolerant. I ended with the finale, “Wrapped in bacon.”
    “That’s my girl.”
    “So,” I said, reaching for a brown grocery
bag, “if you want to fire up the grill, I’ll marinate some veggies,
and we can grill them.”
    “Sure.”
    “Here.” I handed him the bag. “Wash and
prep.”
    He took it and peeked inside. “This is
broccoli.”
    “Not a fan of broccoli?”
    He pursed his lips. “Not usually.”
    I went back to chopping. “You’ve never had
my broccoli, Finn. Prepare to be amazed.”
    He got up and went to the sink, perfectly
content to have me amaze him.
    We had a companionable silence, during which
I chopped and Finn drank, then started the grill. He came back in
and watched me awhile longer.
    “Well, I don’t know if I could get you
sweatier,” he finally observed aloud, “but I could make sure you
had more fun. And with some of the same stuff,” he added.
    “Who said I’m not having fun?” I asked as a
tendril of sweat trickled down my temple. I brushed it away with
the back of my hand. “I love this.”
    He nodded thoughtfully. “It’s the
chaos.”
    I lifted my head and stared at him. “What do
you mean, ‘with the same stuff’?”
    He gestured to the countertop piled with
innocent, healthy vegetables that, after all, I’d brought. I
snorted and resumed cutting. “Hardly.”
    “Definitely.”
    I straightened, the knife in my hand. “You
would use carrots?” I was incredulous. “With us ?”
    “Well, I could . If you wanted. Worth
a try.”
    “A try— If I want…?” I looked at the
vegetables in horror. “Celery? And the…not the broccoli .”
    He grinned and pointed with his beer.
“You’re scared. That’s okay.”
    I stilled. “I am not scared.”
    “Mm. You seem it.”
    I narrowed my eyes. “I just don’t think
celery seems comfortable.”
    He laughed. “I have no affinity with the
celery. I wasn’t even thinking of celery. Pick whatever you
want.”
    I slid my gaze up, then looked over my
shoulder with deep suspicion at the pile of foods. Dusty-brown
ginger root, pale green celery, ripe red strawberries. I
sniffed.
    “Strawberries. You’re probably thinking
strawberries. How predictable,” I said, my disdain lofty, and went
back to my complicated celery work.
    “I’m never predictable, Jane.”
    I stared down at the julienned celery. No,
Finn hadn’t been predictable, not for five seconds. Oh, he was
easy-going and laid back, so you could misunderstand him.
Misattribute him. Underestimate him. But Finn was volcanic, and I
was pretty sure it wasn’t just in bed.
    And…not strawberries?
    I slid my gaze up. “What is it exactly that
you do for a living?”
    He laughed, long and loud, beer in hand. He
was back to a five-o’clock shadow, the dark hair making him
handsome and dangerous and highly alluring.
    “You probably do more than build pavilions
for rich people. Why don’t I know what you do?” I demanded.
    “Because you’ve been too busy having
orgasms. So, you’re scared, that’s fine.”
    I laid my fist down firmly on the counter,
knife pointing up. “I am not scared .” But I felt a strange
excited shiver, as if he’d said we were going to jump out of an
airplane. “Fine.” I gave the pile of food a swift glance.
“Ginger.”
    His grin grew. “Good choice.”
     
    My face fell. “You know something to do with
ginger?”
    He nodded.
    My knees got weak. “That’s just….” I trailed
off. I was going to say wrong . I should have said wrong . Or at least morally bankrupt . But I was
suddenly, rabidly curious. Worried. Scared.
    Excited.
    I leaned forward a little and whispered, “Is
that even legal?”
    “We won’t tell anyone.” His voice was
teasing. He leaned partway across the counter and said, “What is it
you think we’re going to be