“Never.”
“Say it!”
I catch her wrist mid-swing, and everything stops.
She’s so close, I can smell vanilla and cinnamon on her skin, see the fine dusting of flour clinging to her lashes.
Her breathing’s fast. So is mine.
There’s cookie dough on her chin. I swipe it away with my thumb before I can think better of it.
Her lips part a little, and my brain short-circuits. “You missed a spot,” I murmur.
She swallows. “Where?”
I lean in, slow enough that she could move if she wanted. She doesn’t. Right before our mouths meet, the oven timer beeps.
We both jump.
She clears her throat, turns and yanks open the door. “Saved by the bell.”
Or not.
She pulls out the spiced ginger loaf she put in to bake.
“That smells delicious.” My mouth waters.
“It tastes even better.”
I reach over and am about to touch it when she slaps my wrist. “Hey, not yet. It needs to rest and then cool before we can eat it.”
“Damn.” I look at it longingly.
“Patience, Grasshopper.” Her eyes shine. “Meanwhile, let’s roll out the cookie dough.”
I stare at her. “You’re going to have to do better than that.”
She chuckles, then walks over and bumps me with her hip. “Move.”
I step back.
“First, prepare your surface.” She wipes down a section of the countertop.
I move back far enough to watch her hips sway as she works. She’s wearing a pair of jeans that squeeze her butt, and goddamn, my fingers tingle to squeeze them.
“Then lightly dust it with flour; just enough to prevent sticking, not so much that the dough dries out.”
“Mm-hmm.”
I soak up the sweetness in her voice and can’t take my gaze off her hourglass figure.
“Are you listening?”
“Oh, yeah.”
With the smattering of sugar on her cheek and the scent of butter clinging to her, she looks good enough to eat.
“Next, shape the dough.” She grabs a portion of the cookie dough and presses it into a flat disc.
