Standing by the counter, I glanced over at Louis, biting my lip as we cooked together. I enjoyed watching him; he had skipped putting his shirt on and it gave me the perfect opportunity to watch his muscles bunch as he stirred the chicken and bell peppers. The delicious smell of tacos filling the air making my mouth water. I grated the cheese peeking over at him, I couldn’t help my curiosity over his scars.
They trailed over his shoulders and back and down his biceps in small thin almost decorative lines. My thumb ran across the grater and I let out a hiss, Louis was beside me in an instant, his hand on my wrist.
He pulled me to the sink, rinsing the blood from my finger, worry creasing his brow.
“I’m okay,” I said, trying to pull my hand from his.
“Please Amelia,” he said, his
