“What?”
“Your pan is starting to smoke,” he added.
Oh, shoot.
I grabbed the handle and pulled the cast iron pan onto the next burner without thinking. I screamed out.
Finn was by my side in an instant, pulling me toward the sink. Once my hand was under cool water, it felt so much better.
I went to pull my hand out from under the faucet and he said, “Leave it there for five minutes.”
“But it’s already feeling better,” I said. He shot me a warning look and I obeyed.
“I can’t believe I did something so….foolish,” I said once five minutes had passed and he examined my hand.
“Thankfully, you are not badly burned. It’s only a first-degree burn, but it will sting for a few days.” Looking even more closely he added, “There is no sign of blistering. If there was, I’d have you come with me to the hospital.”
“For a little burn? That is a little…much don’t you think?” I asked, knowing I should appreciate his tender, loving care more. But my only thought was how I would explain it to the press, to my citizens.
“With heat, you don’t want to ever risk an infection setting in.”
“I thought you were a heart surgeon,” I said.
He glared at me, and in a very serious tone he said, “This is basic first aid.”
“Finn, I was only joking.”
“I’m not. Now do you have any sterile gauze?”
“No. But if you don’t mind grabbing me a little ice from the freezer, that would be nice,” I said.
“You don’t put ice on burns. It actually can do more damage than what is already done. How about a clean cloth that I can wrap your hand in?” he asked.
I pointed to the drawer near the sink. He pulled out a white cloth, walked over to me and wrapped my fingers loosely in the towel. “Now just sit and don’t be touching it.”
Smiling, I replied, “Yes, doctor. Good thing you’re here to take care of me.”
“I have a feeling that if I wasn’t here, you would’ve been paying attention to your cooking,” he replied.
You got that right.
Finn was a distraction, and it wasn’t red fingers that I was worried about. I was starting to care for him more and more each day. But he was either going to leave and turn down the job, or take the job, and move here. Either way, it makes a future for us, impossible.
“Speaking of cooking, what about the omelets?”
“It’s a good sign that you’re still thinking about food,” he chuckled. “You sit. I’ll cook,” he ordered.
Thankfully it had only been the chopped onions, mushroom, and assorted sweet peppers that had been in the pan with butter. I sat down and watched as he returned the pan to the flame.
“You might want to add a little more butter,” I said.
“I believe you’ve put more than enough,” he responded as he stirred the skillet.
“It really adds a lot of flavor.”
“There are healthier ways to add flavor.” He reached for the eggs and was about to pour them into the skillet with the veggies.
“Wait. You need to add cream to them first. And then you need some salt and pepper and whisk them up again,” I instructed.