And I can’t help but stare at the way she moves, the way her curves sway as she works, the defiant tilt of her chin when she refuses to look at me.
She’s everything I shouldn’t want—and the only thing I can’t seem to stop thinking about.
Maybe I should’ve let the app have the last word.
Because the longer I’m in this kitchen with her, the less I care about breaking anything off.
And the more I want to break every single one of my own rules instead.
She finally turns to face me.
And for a second—just one—I forget how to breathe.
Those eyes.
Golden-brown, rich and deep, like honey caught in sunlight.
I swear I could drown in them, happily, if it meant she’d keep looking at me like that for the rest of my life.
“Look,” she says softly, brushing a smear of flour from her arm, “it’s late. I’m tired, and I’m hungry, and tomorrow I have to start baking at five so I can get everything cooled down and boxed for Uncle Uzzi’s party Friday.”
Her lips twist into a small, self-deprecating smile, the kind that hits me square in the chest.
“I know I won’t see you there,” she adds, with a note of quiet acceptance that I hate, “but I am looking forward to it. I love Christmas.”
“I bet you do,” I whisper, before I can stop myself.
And I mean it.
Of course, she loves Christmas.
She looks like she belongs to it—the warmth, the light, the laughter.
Everything good and sweet about the season is standing right in front of me, wearing a damn apron that says Bake It Happen.
I drag a hand through my hair, trying to think straight.
“You know,” I say, my voice lower now, more deliberate, “I didn’t eat either.”
Her brow arches. “And?”
I take a cautious step forward, heart thudding in my chest like I’m back in my first boardroom pitch.
“And maybe we grab something together. My way of apologizing.”
Her lips part, surprise flickering over her face.
I can see her waver, can almost feel it—the tug of something between us neither of us is ready to name.
Her pulse kicks up. I can hear it. Fuck me, I can smell it.
My Badger perks up immediately, smug as hell.
Yes. Feed her. Woo her. Keep her.
Down, boy.
“I don’t know,” she says, voice a little breathless.
