He asks her to join him for dinner. It's just a simple housemate's courtesy—he's making enough food for the two of them; there's no reason not to comply with the request. She offers to help, but he says he's got it handled.
And handle things he does indeed.
Jack is making homemade pasta—all rolled out and resting on the counter—with the sauce from the garden tomatoes. He moves around the kitchen with such… confidence. A sort of naturality born from years of practice. Shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows, worn apron with its dark fabric starting to fade outlining his toned frame. He walks from the stove to the counter, from the spices cabinets to the sink, maneuvering pots and cutting boards with an elegant ease.
All the while, Elsa watches him through the glass in her hand, his shape distorted by the wine legs sliding down after every precise swirl.
"Give it a quick taste for me, will ya?"
He's shifted from the oven and holds a spoon close to her lips, a glint of curiosity in his eyes. Not one to easily back down from a challenge, Elsa sets her wine on the counter and leans forward to enclose the spoon between her lips. His eyebrows twitch, but he covers it nicely, and she takes the spoon from him, fingers brushing against his for the quickest of moments, and allows the sauce to slowly coat her tongue. "Could use some more pepper flakes."
"Ah, a girl who can handle some heat," he says, sprinkling some flakes into the pan.
She rolls her eyes. "So how did you learn to cook?"
"I don't know, how does anyone?"
"Cooking shows and wise parental figures?"
"Yeah, something like that," he chuckles, then adds, "Mom. And grandma for a little while."
"Well, kudos to them." She uses her newly acquired spoon to gesture around the kitchen. "They've taught you well."
"Oh, please you have seen nothing yet." He leans back against the sink and folds his arms. The smirk on his lips raises a sense of danger in her that gives her goosebumps. "I make one hell of a devil's food cake."
She licks her lips, the salty taste of the sauce lingering on her tastebuds. "You can bake cakes as well?"
He chuckles. "Anyone can bake cakes. I bake phenomenal cakes."
"Somebody is full of talk," she mumbles with her mouth against her wine glass.
"It's not talk when it's the truth."
"If there's anything I have learned about you over the short period of time we've known each other, Jackson, is that your version of the truth can be sometimes skewed."
If he's offended by the dry tone of her words at all, he doesn't show a thing. Instead, he unaffectedly muses, "Too bad we don't have the ingredients to make one right now. What are you doing tomorrow?"
She straightens up frowning. "Excuse me?"
He winks. "You want proof of my extraordinary cake-baking skills."
"I did not say such a thing. And I'm working tomorrow."
"Right. Me too. So Monday?"
Her eyes narrow. Elsa rotates the glass in her hands for a while, eyes dead set on the silly man in front of her. His amused smirk doesn't waver a single inch. She feels like she's trapped in a game of chicken, each of them on opposite cliffs that meet the ocean, its turvy waters dark and intimidating down below. She speeds closer and closer to the edge, heart racing, skin vibrating, and he taunts her from across the vast emptiness separating them, boisterous laugh and triumphant voice thundering everywhere. The idiot clearly expects to win.
Heat rushing through her bloodstream, and overflooded by a sudden surge of boldness, she downs the rest of her wine and sets it down with a decided clink. "Fine. Show me your extraordinary baking skills on Monday, Jackson."
"Oh, I'm doing more than that, lady." With a chuckle, he walks to where she sits and leans against the counter, his arm brushing hers. His gaze trails down to her lips, then back to her eyes. Elsa's breath is caught in her throat. The heat from his body reaches her skin. "I'm gonna teach you how to bake one yourself."