I place plates where she needs them, watching her hands move. She's good at this—confident, and clearly capable. She’s not performing for anyone; she’s just doing what she loves.
By the third batch, the cabin smells like heaven, and I'm starting to forget why I locked myself up here in the first place.
I pass behind her to tend the fire. My shoulder brushes hers—it’s barely any contact at all really, but it's enough to make me hyperaware of every inch of space between us.
A spoon slips and frosting flies through the air, landing on my cheekbone.
We both freeze.
Her eyes go wide. "Oh my goodness! I’m so sorry!"
I can’t move. The frosting is cold on my skin, but her proximity is burning me alive.
"Let me—" She sets the bowl down and steps closer.
This is a bad idea; I should step back and create some distance between us. I need to remember all the reasons I don't let people this close.
Yet, I don't move.
She reaches up, her thumb soft against my cheek, and I forget how to breathe. Her pulse flutters at her wrist, fast and frantic. Being this close to her is breaking something open inside me, something I've kept locked down for too long.
"Got it." Her smile is wide, bright, and completely unaware of what she's doing to me.
My gaze drops to her mouth without permission. "You missed a spot."
"What? Where?"
Gently, I wrap my fingers around her wrist, giving her time to pull away, before bringing her thumb to my mouth.
Her breath catches.
I lick the sugar from her skin, slow and deliberate, watching her eyes go dark. She tastes like vanilla and butter and every bad decision I'm about to make.
"Mm. Sweet."
What the actual fuck am I doing?
"The frosting?" Her voice comes out all breathless and sexy.
Fuck. Me.
"Both."
Ah, shut up, man. You’re not helping yourself here.
The oven timer shrieks, shattering the moment.
Thank fuck.
We jump apart like we've been electrocuted. She throws herself at the stove, and I rake a hand through my hair, trying to remember how to think.
What the hell was that?
"Right—cookies. Focus." She's talking to herself, not me, and her hands shake slightly as she pulls out the tray.
Okay, good. It’s not just me—she’s affected too.
She glances at me once—quick, uncertain—like she's trying to figure out if what just happened was real or if she imagined the whole thing. Then she turns back to the cookies, her signature smile firmly back in place.
