Jim stood in the corner of the dark den, watching Pam sit at the laptop, the neon glow reflecting off of her glasses. He smirked, her face only inches away from the screen as she scrolled the images.
“What are you doing?” She jumped, turning around to face him and laughed at the look on his face; a face of pure confusion.
“I was looking up directions on how to fold apple pie crust correctly,” she sighed and took her glasses off, rubbing her eyes, “but I really don’t think my fingers are going to make these patterns.”
He walked over, his hands landing on her shoulders, “Let me take a look,” he mumbled glancing onto the screen as pictures of beautifully sculpted pies on an assortment of table cloths that looked like something out of Pottery Barn.
Jim scoffed, “I can do better.”
“Oh please,” she turned around, grinning at him, begging him to continue. “You don’t cook anything except for sandwiches and that doesn’t count,” Pam rolled her eyes.
“Whatever you say,” He sing-songed and walked out into the kitchen starting to grab items from the cabinets.
“Jim, it’s nine at night, you’re going to cook now?” She folded her arms across her t-shirt and moved to the island, situating herself on a bar stool.
He pulled out the flour, sugar, nutmeg and cinnamon and started mixing them in a bowl. “You realize you’re insane right?”
Turning around he pointed to her and then the floor next to him, “You. Here.” He ordered, a smile playing on the edge of his turned up lips.
“No way.” Pam lifted her hands in protest, “There’s no way you’re getting me in your kitchen. I know those rules. There’s got to be a booby trap over there somewhere.” She began to search the floors.
“I promise, no traps...at least not tonight,” he winked, “just c’mere. Oh and grab those apples.” He pointed to the bag that was leaning against the bottom of the fridge.
Without haste, she climbed off the stool and joined him at the kitchen counter, taking apples out of the bag.
“Are you putting me to work, Halpert?” Pam asked, raising an eyebrow.
“Eet eez Monsieur Halpert, to you, Madame.” There was the french accent.
“Oh no,” she brought her hand to her head, “Not again.”
“I’ll make a deal with you, you don’t cut yourself parring apples, and I’ll lose the terrible accent,” Jim wagered.
“Deal,” she grabbed the knife and began slicing them.
Jim glance down at her hands, “Pam,” He grabbed the knife from her hands, “What are you doing?”
She looked at the apple slices on the counter and then back at him, “Cutting,” she replied.
He chuckled, grabbed the knife from her and starting cutting the slices thinner and closer together. Pam’s eyes widened at the speed he was doing so, “How did you learn to do that?” she asked, her arm snaking around his waist.
“Mmmm, I guess I spent a lot of time with my Mom when I was little,” he shrugged. She continued to look at him, waiting for him to say something else. “Sometimes, I think my hands just to know what to do,” he caught her eyes, “it’s like they just start moving and the rest of me goes along for the ride.” Pam smiled, lying her head on his shoulder.
“Here,” he took her hands and set them on the apple, his own covering hers as they lifted the knife, “watch,” he said quietly as he used her hands to slice, “see you can do it!” He laughed.
“Don’t baby me, Jim.” She warned, holding up the knife giggling.
“Woah, woah,” he grabbed her waist, kissing her neck as she brought the knife back to the counter; Pam’s head drifted back for a moment.
“We’re supposed to be making a pie,” she protested.
“That can wait,” his lips stopped on the warm place just behind her ear, holding them there for a minute. “Ow!” he cried, stepping away from her and immediately placing a hand on his backside.
“What’d you do that for?”
“Get your ass back to work, mister, you have a pie to make,” she bit her lip and contained the laugh that was bursting within her.
“You’re terrible Pam, just awful. Haven’t you ever heard that old saying, ‘Don’t bite the hand that--”
She ran away from him as soon as she’d done it, screaming playfully running into their living room as he chased after her, pulling her onto the couch. “You think you can bite me and get away with it?”
He held her close, his arms wrapped around her, laughing. “Okay! Okay!” she yelled exasperated, “I won’t....I won’t bite you!”
He removed his hands from her stomach, and climbed off of her, “Fine, but you don’t get any pie,” he shook his head, “I hope our children don’t take after your canine instincts.”
She laughed, “My instincts? You better watch it, or you’ll get some smack talk back,” she waved a finger in front of him as he placed the pie into the oven.
“I’m scared, I really am,” he removed his gloves, “but by our last smack-down, it’s obvious that I kicked your ass,” he smirked.
She lifted her hands up in the air, “If it makes you feel better...”
He smiled, his tongue between his teeth, “This is so on”
Author's Chapter Notes:
Author’s Notes Thank you all so much for the warm welcome to MTT! I really love reading your reviews, they keep me writing, and I’m so appreciative you love the playfulness of the story. Here’s another update, can’t wait to hear what you think.
Disclaimer NBC owns all rights to The Office and it’s characters.
Disclaimer NBC owns all rights to The Office and it’s characters.
