He finished tying off the rope, back muscles protesting as he wound maybe a little harder than necessary. If Mama D was right—and man, wasn’t she usually?—he might not get to relax again for a very long time.
five
“All I want for Christmas is youuu.” Zoey sang into the white spatula—officially the most boring spatula she’d ever encountered—and shook her hips before she resumed stirring the lumpy dough. The other day, she’d had to unearth the probably-never-been-used mixing bowl from the depths of Linc’s pantry, behind an enormous open bag of sunflower seeds and a bulk-club box of white rice. No wonder the man looked like he did—the kitchen was full of nothing but natural peanut butter, avocados, and chicken.
She’d fix that.
“…underneath the treeee.” She sang along as she spooned clumps of dough onto the cookie sheet, pausing to wipe her cheek with her shoulder. Flour coated her hands, the apron she’d swiped from Linc’s grilling closet—yes, an entire pantry dedicated to meat-cooking supplies—and the countertops. Oops, and the floor. Oh well, she’d get to that. Linc wouldn’t be home for several hours and?—
“It’s September.”
Zoey shrieked and spun, arm flailing. Cookie dough shot off the end of her spatula and slapped against the wall, where it began a slow descent toward the floor.
Plop.
Linc stared at her from the doorway, his hair piled on top of his head, a slight sunburn streaking his nose.
Her heart restarted with a thud. “You scared me.” She pointed at him with the spatula, and another piece of dough dropped to her feet.
“What are you doing?” Linc strode across the kitchen, scowl in place. He slapped the portable speaker, and Mariah abruptly shut up. “This place is a mess.”
“Your bowl is clean, though.” She gestured to the sink, where the black porridge dish nestled among the remains of burnt cookie crumbs, a rolling pin, and several measuring cups. She wouldn’t tell him how long it had taken to soak the porridge free.
He ran a hand down the side of his jaw and, once again, she couldn’t tell if he wanted to laugh or maybe sue her. “What are you wearing?”
Then his eyes widened a little, and she thought about teasing him for the phrase choice, but it seemed like he’d been through enough already. She looked down at the black apron. “You trying to say I’m not believable asThe Grillfather?”
“Hardly.” He sniffed the air. “Did you burn a batch?”
“Two, actually.”
He leaned one hip against the island, then noticed the flour and backed away. “Remind me how you had an award-winning beignet business, again?”
“Apparently I’m really good at deep-frying stuff.” Zoey winced and tossed the spatula on the counter. “Don’t worry, I’ll get the rest of this figured out.”
Linc pried open the oven door. Smoke drifted out.
“Oops. Must not have heard the timer over Mariah.” She hurried to the oven, donned a mitt, and wrenched out the tray. “Okay, so make that three burned batches. We still have one left.” She gestured with the mitt toward the remaining lumps of dough ready for their turn. Or more like their fate.
He narrowed his eyes. “You really think that’s a good idea?”
“Good point. I’ll set two timers.” She crossed her arms over the apron. Dough squished beneath her shoe. “The real question is, why are you so home so early?” Home. That sounded weird.
And nice.
“Oh, sure. You put an apron on and the nagging starts.” He moved across the kitchen toward her, paused to brush flour off the leg of his jeans.
She held her ground, fighting a smile. “Evading my question, I see.”
He was moving closer, now. Stopped directly in front of her. “Did you do your pushups?”
“I did five, and decided that was a ridiculous house rule.” She lifted her chin.
He leaned in, and the smell of saltwater and sunscreen washed over her. She swallowed. Was he going to?—
He reached around her, snagged an apple from the fruit bowl, and took a big chomp. Juice sprayed. “You’re behind, then. You owe me thirty.”
Why had she thought he was doing anything other than reaching for a snack? And why was the little voice in the back of her head whispering she wanted him to?
