My grip is protective and possessive in a way I have no right to feel. She smells so damn good it’s making me forget my own name. Her fingers curl against my chest, not pushing away, her heart racing against mine.
"I've got you,” I murmur, gazing into those warm hazel eyes.
There's flour dusting my shoulder from where she grabbed me—a mark, proof she was here, that this is real.
Her lips part. "Do you?"
I nod without thinking. "Yeah."
We stand there for far too long. The space between us shrinks to nothing, and I'm staring at her mouth, wondering if she tastes as good as she smells.
My fingers flex at her waist—just once—and heat flares in her eyes.
Do it. Kiss her. Stop thinking and just?—
No.
I ease her upright and step back, forcing more distance between us even though every instinct screams at me to pull her closer.
"Thanks."
I nod, not trusting my voice. "The floor's slippery. Be careful."
"You're bossy." She smiles, but her gaze darts around me like she can’t meet my eyes.
"I'm cautious,” I correct her.
Our eyes meet, and something passes between us—understanding, maybe, or acknowledgment that we're both lying to ourselves about what just happened.
I turn away before I can do something stupid.
We finish frosting without further incident, but I'm hyperaware of every movement she makes. The memory of her body against mine burns under my skin, and fuck if I don’t want more.
Cookie packages cookies for Beth, sets aside a plate for tonight, then wraps the rest with the professionalism of a seasoned baker. The storm settles into a steady flurry outside. I check doors and windows; anywhere cold might creep in.
Anything to keep my mind busy.
She disappears and returns wearing my sweater. It falls to mid-thigh, skimming her curves in a way that makes my mouth go dry. Her bare legs, her toes curling against the cold floor?—
Fucking Jesus.
I look away. "Feeling any warmer?"
"Much. Thank you."
I tend the fire like it personally offended me.
She brings over a plate with two cookies and holds one out. I hesitate, then take it. Our fingers brush—deliberately, I think, but I'm not sure anymore. I could be imagining this.
I bite into the cookie, and flavor explodes across my tongue. Cinnamon, butter, vanilla, sugar. It's perfect—better than perfect; it’s the best damn cookie I’ve ever had.
My eyes close briefly as I savor it, and when I open them, she's watching me, her fingers twisting together like she gives a shit what I think.
"They’re good."
She beams. "That’s high praise coming from you."
We eat, and she talks about the bakery—telling me stories about ovens and regulars and the rhythm of her days. I don't offer much back, but I listen. Actually listen, instead of waiting for her to leave like I do with everyone else. Because she’s interesting. Fascinating even—I love how positive she is, even though we’re complete opposites.
