Of course, he hauls me against him and licks his lips over my mouth.
When I part my lips with a sigh, he kisses me deeply. My head spins, and I clutch his arms for support. “Thank you,” I whisper against his mouth.
“You’re welcome.” He tries to kiss me again.
I lean back in the circle of his arms. “Oh no, you’re not going to distract me.”
“Who, me?” He tries to look innocent and fails completely.
“Yes, you. You’re not getting out of making Christmas cookies.”
40
Brody
“Why is this dough so… Doughy?” I glance up from where I’ve been waging war on what’s supposed to be cookie dough.
I managed to distract her enough to get out of making cookies yesterday.
I also distracted her all night, so we both barely got any shut-eye.
Today, however, there’s no escape.
She insisted we spend our first Christmas as a married couple baking cookies. Which, I’m realizing, is more difficult than running a billion-dollar company.
Lark’s laughing so hard she’s doubled over, hands on her knees, a smear of flour streaking her cheek like war paint.
Christ, she’s gorgeous. I fix the image in my mind, something to return to when I need a reminder of what happiness looks like.
Damn, she’s making me sentimental.
We’d raided the kitchen and found the ingredients as well as the equipment she needed to bake. Whew! Disaster averted.
She’s also making me worry about things other than conference calls and budget projections.It’s a whole new world for me.
She takes in my flour-streaked T-shirt. “You’re supposed tomix inthe flour, not bathe in it.” She wheezes between giggles.
I drag the back of my hand down my face, which grinds more flour into my jaw. “Next time, don’t hand the whisk to a former Marine and say beat itgently.”
That sets her off again. Her laugh fills the kitchen, bright and contagious, and for a second, I forget this is supposed to be about Christmas cookies. I feel like I’ve been given my very own Christmas surprise.
She’s wiping her eyes when I grab a spoon, dip it into the bowl, and hold it up like a weapon.
“Mock your CO again, and you’ll be eating dough straight from the source.”
She looks up, eyes wide. “You wouldn’t.”
“I absolutely would.” I launch a dollop of dough at her, and it lands right on her cheek.Direct hit.
Her mouth drops open. “You?—”
“Careful,” I warn, grinning now. “Retaliation is futile.”
“Futile, huh?” She snatches a handful of flour and flings it at me. A cloud of white bursts between us.
Now we’re both covered. Me, her, the countertop, the floor. Every surface in sight, actually.
She steps closer, brandishing the rolling pin like a sword. “Say sorry.”
