She turned a spin, the hem of her short dress flaring as she pivoted toward the stove. She wasn't just cooking, she was performing. A dash of seasoning became a choreographed move, a stir of the sauce became a rhythmic sway.
She was a whirlwind of movement, flour dusted the counter, a stray piece of bell pepper skittered across the floor, and she didn't care. She was laughing, her voice lost in the music, dancing barefoot on the cool tiles. She felt lighter, more alive than she had in years.
She was completely oblivious to the world outside the kitchen, unaware of how radiant she looked, dancing in the warm glow of the pendant lights.
She was mid-twirl, a wooden spoon in her hand like a microphone, when the front door latch clicked. The sound was sharp, heavy, and unmistakably masculine.
Max was home.
