Spackle

She looked up when he walked into the kitchen. His color was good but there was something about the way his gaze scanned the space that told her more than his appearance ever could. He was restless.

Dropping the cheese grater into the bowl half-filled with mozzarella, she crossed to the table and pulled out a chair. Indicating the empty seat with a nod, she watched while he sat. With a small smile, she dropped a kiss on his temple.

"Feeling antsy?"

"A little," he admitted.

"Need something to do?"

His arched eyebrow was her answer.

"I thought so." She pretended not to see the question in that raised brow, the one that told her just how hard it was for a strong, active man to remain idle. "If you don't mind, I could use some help here."

Without waiting for a reply, she brought two cake layers, a bowl of frosting and a red cake plate to the table. Then, she handed him a frosting knife.

There was just a small chunk of mozzarella left. She grated it quickly, tossing it onto the pizza that would be their dinner. As she stuck the pizza into the oven, she glanced over at him.

The first cake layer had a thick, smooth coating on it. She watched as he placed the second layer onto the first and took up his knife again. With slow, even strokes he swept the icing over the cake's surface.

She stifled a giggle, but not quickly enough for him to miss it. He looked up, and raised the eyebrow a second time. This quirk held a different question than the first one had, a question he gave voice to.

"What? Am I doing something wrong?"

Quick to reassure, she shook her head. "No, of course not. Actually, that cake is iced to perfection. I never take as much care with icing a cake as you do. It looks beautiful."

He grinned. "Thanks. No big deal, really. After all, I have had enough practice."

"Icing cakes?"

Taking a dollop of frosting from the bowl onto the knife, he chuckled. "No, not icing cakes. Spackling. This is just like plastering a wall."