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The pudding was all wrong. It was more than wrong - it was shameful. She hadn't added anything in the proper sequence, and there were lumps all through the mix. After having offered to make Jack dinner, she quickly realized just how awful it would all turn out to be. Nothing had gone exactly her way.
Phryne let out a growl in frustration only to hear Jack from the dining room: "You sure you don't want help in there?" He was grinning, that horrible man - she could just tell.
"I am handling things quite well, I'll have you know."
But the chipper enthusiasm in her voice did not transmit to her expression, as Jack found when he poked his head around the corner. There stood Phryne Fisher in the most beautiful turquoise cotton summer dress - wings of black hair tickling her cheek - as she stood muttering obscenities into her pudding.
"I mean it, Phryne," he said gently. "I could give you a hand."
"I'm not incapable," she sighed, weakened by the way he spoke her given name. "I just ..."
"You don't have to explain your lack of culinary skills to me," Jack smiled anew, letting himself into the kitchen with a lovely confidence. "How many languages do you know? And dances, and fighting strategies, and detecting methods?"
Phryne hummed delightedly as her cheeks turned a lovely shade of scarlet at his implied compliments. She was a woman of many talents.
"So what if cooking isn't a natural talent," he continued, stepping around the table to take the whisk from her hand. "If you had any real inclination to learn, I have no doubt you'd be the culinary buzz about town within the month."
"YOU sure like a warm meal," she commented saucily, biting her cheek to keep from laughing when he raised a brow at HER for a change.
"I need an alibi for staying past the detective chatter," he teased back, dipping his pinky into the mix to draw it into his mouth.
"You can NOT tell me you don't enjoy Mr. Butler's cooking. The aroma alone excites you! I've seen that look in your eyes when Mr. Butler's preparing one of his meals."
Jack chuckled, nodding affectionately. "Yes, he's a very good cook."
"And I'm not," Phryne pouted against her greater efforts.
"Not yet maybe," Jack agreed, bursting with clumsy laughter when she gave him a shove.
"Well why don't you go protest my cooking elsewhere then," she mumbled, making such a careful show of being upset that Jack realized she really was. He caught her arm before she walked away, and met her crushed expression with worry. There he saw the insecurities of a little girl, and he remembered she had been brought up in poverty. Maybe nobody had ever taught her. How many good home-cooked meals had she enjoyed as a child?
"Phryne ..." he was staring at her, still holding that slender arm in his soft but assuring grip. He didn't pity her. He loved her. And for that, he smiled more deeply as he drew her a little closer. "Phryne ... come here and let me show you something."
She might have tugged her arm back if Jack weren't so incredibly warm and inviting, but as it was, she allowed herself to enjoy the comfort of his arms wrapping around her. She stood tucked between him and her kitchen table, smiling over her shoulder at the feel of his arms closing in against her sides.
"Hold the bowl like this ..."
Phryne felt an ease with Jack's ability to console her insecurities. Her shoulders relaxed just as his tensed. Being so close with her - witnessing her happy comfort in his arms - affected Jack.
"Good," he said as plainly as he could, all-too-tempted to whisper into her ear. He kept his eyes trained over her shoulder at the unfortunate creation. "Now hold the whisk like this."
When she followed his directions without the usual sass that accompanied so many of their conversation, Jack melted.
"Like this?"
He closed his eyes for a moment, willing himself to behave. "Yes," he said, clearing his throat. His fingers grazed hers when he helped her angle the bowl. Her fingers were so slender and pale. He had to admire their comparison to his, resting his palm over her hand.
"Good, now the next time you make something like this, you're going to whisk the first few ingredients over some heat."
"How can you tell I've failed?" Phryne teased, wanting to abandon the task altogether but unable to pull away from Jack's fingers pressing against hers. When had his hands been so tenderly masculine? She had always appreciated Jack's hands for their rugged quality, but she had never imagined they might hold her so carefully. Phryne, of all people! The very thought was absurd to her, but she found the sensation quickly growing on her.
His tenderness was so endearing, she found her teases softened too.
"Jack ... you're putting me to shame."
She nearly moaned at his deep, quiet laughter. "Am I? Just like you shame me at most crime scenes?"
Phryne giggled freely, leaning back against him: "Are you admitting I can best you at something, Jack?"
"Did you really need me to admit that?"
Jack could handle the proximity. He assured himself he could deny the pleasure of a more daring skin-to-skin contact, but she was so alarmingly beautiful. Her confidence and perspicacious view of police protocol on police cases only served to heighten his admiration of her.
"It wouldn't hurt ..."
She was teasing him. The nerve of that intoxicating woman.
"Alright, I admit it. You're an asset."
Phryne grinned: "So quick to surrender, are we?" She was turning before he could properly set down the bowl, essentially pinning her front to his. "Well, as long as we're surrendering ... I must admit ... I'm incredibly sorry I've offered to make you this ludicrous meal. I'm afraid I'll poison you if you eat it."
"I'm not sorry," he answered honestly, withdrawing his hands to give them some space. He looked at her through a bold, observing glance. "It isn't often we're able to spend time together. Surrendering things, and so forth."
"It isn't often I have you in bare feet in my kitchen," Phryne smirked - her expression only more contagious when Jack glanced down to see that he was, in fact, barefoot.
"I don't remember doing that."
Phryne chuckled: "It must be routine for you once you're home for the night." They both ignored the implications of his belonging in her presence: "Are you often barefoot at home, Inspector?"
Jack shrugged, not meeting her eyes. "I guess."
"Mmm hmm," she grinned again, only allowing one finger to bridge the gap between them, pressing his shirt button that lingered over his abdomen. "Well ... I'm terribly sorry about dinner. It seems I've let you go hungry."
"Have you?" he teased, uncharacteristically seductive.
Phryne swallowed hard, staring back into his complicated gaze. "Let me make it up to you, Jack ...?"
They stood face-to-face, analysing one another's responses to the situation. When Phryne realized Jack was not put off by the notion of staying around a while longer, she felt her breathing grow heavier. When Jack allowed himself to realize Phryne's reaction to the way he watched her, a grin found its way to his lips.
"Just what did you have in mind?"